Page 14 of The Silver Fox Bidder

The doors open, and the first guests filter in.

The turnout is bigger than expected. Some people traveled from hours away after hearing whispers that Walk Tankersley—the reclusive, once-famous painter—was returning with new work. Some are collectors, some are locals who have only known me as the man in the cabin on the mountain. All are curious.

I grip Lucy’s hand, holding her steady beside me as I watch people move through the gallery, pausing before my work, murmuring in hushed voices.

Then I lead her to the largest painting in the room.

It’s her.

Wildflowers are pressed into the paint, delicate stems and petals woven into the brushstrokes. Her hair tumbles around her shoulders, her green eyes bright, full of life. There’s a softness in her expression, something vulnerable and real. Something only I have ever been lucky enough to see.

Now, others get to see it too, through the art.

I clear my throat, turning to address the crowd. A hush falls over them.

“Thank you all for coming tonight to see my new work,” I say, my voice steady, though my grip on Lucy tightens. “All of the pieces are for sale, except for two.”

“That one.” I gesture toward the first—the painting we created together on our first date, the one that still holds our laughter and our hesitant, growing connection.

And then I point to her portrait.

“And this one.”

I pull Lucy closer, my voice rough with emotion. “None of this would be possible without this woman. She has bewitched me, turned my life upside down, and made it brighter than I ever thought possible.”

She blinks up at me, her lips parting slightly, her eyes filled with adoration and love.

I take a breath, reaching into my pocket.

The room fades. The crowd disappears.

There’s only her.

I pull out the small box, opening it to reveal a ring.Simple. Elegant. Perfect. Just like Lucy.

“Tank,” she gasps, her hands flying to her mouth.

I kneel.

I never thought I’d kneel for anyone again.

But for Lucy? I’d kneel a thousand times over.

“Lucy Caldwell,” I say, my voice thick with everything I feel for her. “You brought me back to life. You are my heart, my light, my love. Will you do me the honor of being my wife?”

Tears brim in her eyes. Her hands tremble as she lowers them from her face.

“Yes.”

Her voice is breathless, barely above a whisper. Then stronger, louder, fiercer.

“Yes!”

Cheers erupt around us, but I don’t hear them. All I hear is the pounding of my own heart as I rise, lift her into my arms, and seal her yes with a deep, consuming kiss.

The gallery fades away. The world fades away.

This is all that matters.

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