Page 80 of Beautiful Mess

“But nobody asked you,” Graham deadpans, a barely-there smirk curling his lip as he looks at her through the rearview mirror.

Gemma and I chuckle as I turn in my seat and watch Charley flip him off with both hands. Their relationship has always been interesting—and kind of amusing—to me. She’s barely older than me and Graham, and in high school, she dated one of his football buddies, so they spent a lot of time around each other. They also both work at the inn. Sometimes they act like friends, while other times, like right now, they bicker like brother and sister.

Charley has always felt like the third sister I never had.

Graham drops us off in front of the studio with time to spare, and I mentally pat myself on the back about how on top of it I am tonight. A huge part of me wishes things weren’t so awkward with Conway right now, because rubbing it in his face that I’mnotlate would feel pretty damn good. Although, thinking back to what Gemma said earlier, it’s painfully obvious that things are only awkward between us becauseI’mmaking them awkward.

After I reiterate to my brother what time the show is over and how he better not be late, the three of us head inside as butterflies swarm around my belly. Both at the knowledge that I’m about to see Conway for the first time since my office last weekend—we somehow managed to finalize the art show plans via text after much insistence on my part and a lot of griping on his part—and at the event in general. The art show has the potential to raise a hell of a lot of money for the school tonight, maybe even more than the auction raised.

And I’m pretty damn proud of that.

Thirty-Four

Grace

Walking inside, it’s immediate, the way my gaze finds him, like he’s the only one in the room. My breath catches and my heart stutters as I drink in the sight. Wearing khaki-colored Chinos that hug his beefy thighs and a black, short-sleeve, button-down shirt that accentuates his tan, corded, weathered arms and broad shoulders, my mouth waters. I can’t seem to peel my eyes away. Conway’s talking to a man who appears to be the bartender, but as if he senses my presence, pauses whatever he’s saying to scan the room, all the air leaving my lungs in a rush when his dark, broody gaze collides with mine.

For a moment, everyone in the room—my sister, Charley, the man he’s talking to, all the volunteers—vanishes. For a single, electric moment, it’s just me and Conway standing barely a room’s length apart, our eyes locked on one another. He holds my gaze long enough for my mouth to dry and my pulse to kick up a notch, but it’s when his eyes drift lower, shamelessly taking in the way the periwinkle dress I’m wearing cups my breasts and hugs my curves before cutting off mid-thigh, that my body truly awakens. Goosebumps prick along my flesh and my stomach performs somersaults as every inch of my body is doused in gasoline and ignited by the match provided in Conway’s hungry, appreciative gaze.

Feeling a little too vulnerable under the weight of his stare, it’s me who looks away first. Shifting my body toward Charley and Gemma, I’m met with a couple of knowing smirks, and I can’t help the bubble of laughter that spills past my lips.

“Why are y’all looking at me like that?” I ask obtusely, suddenly wishing I had a drink in my hand, but that would require me to walk over to where Conway’s at, and I’m too sober for that.

Damn, we should’ve pre-gamed at Gemma’s. What was I thinking?

“Oh, please. You know exactly what,” Charley huffs with a small laugh. “Like we could’ve missed that steamy exchange.”

“There was no steamy exchange.” The words sound like a lie even to my own ears.

“Grace, that man practically undressed you with his eyes just now.” Gemma snorts. “There’s no way anybody could’ve missed that.”

I roll my eyes. “Whatever. I’m going to find the studio owner and make sure we’re good to go for doors opening in twenty minutes. You two can put yourself to good use and get me a glass of wine.”

“Oh, sure.” Charley nods, a grin inching up her face. “And that task you gave us hasnothingat all to do with you avoiding Conway.”

“You’re right, it doesn’t.” Clasping my hands in front of me, I stand taller and roll my shoulders back, giving them my most innocent smile. “I have an actual job to do here, you know. I simply don’t have the time to get my own drink before the event starts.”

Gemma and Charley share a look before my sister says, “Right, of course. One glass of wine coming right up.”

Linking her arm through Charley’s, they set off in the direction of the bar and the man I’m totallynotavoiding. I breathe out a laugh before walking farther into the gallery in search of the owner. Finding her all the way in the back, I go through the checklist with her before showtime. As soon as eight o’clock hits, parents and townspeople alike stroll through the front entrance, flooding the gallery with curious eyes and ready wallets. By the end of the first hour, I know with certainty that this event will already be more successful than the first, which is saying something, because the auction performed quite well.

Avoiding Conway, while also pretending I’m not, is a lot easier than I thought it would be with how crowded it is in here. Artists from Blossom Beach and the surrounding towns—mostly college students—donatedbeautifulpieces for the fundraiser, and I’m in awe at the sheer talent they each possess. A few of them even came tonight, and getting to talk with them about their art is, honestly, inspiring.

Thanks to my lovely sister and equally lovely bestie—with the help of the cute bartender whom Charley’s been shamelessly flirting with all night—it’s nearing the end of hour two, and I’ve got a nice little buzz flowing through my veins. Taylor’s Grilldonated their services again tonight, just like they did for the auction. Hors d’oeuvres that I’ve eaten way too many of are being passed around by a couple of their employees who can’t be any older than sixteen or seventeen. They’re all interested in perusing art in college after they graduate from high school—a fun little tidbit of information the manager of the grill shared with me when I confirmed their donation yesterday.

The excitement shining in their eyes makes me smile as they mingle with the guests and take in the paintings and photographs lining the outer corners of the room. It reminds me of when I first decided to pursue my dream of opening my own bakery. The conferences I went to where I got to meet successful people in my field, all the forums I joined for tips and tricks, the classes I took taught by professors with a wealth of knowledge and experience, all of it was so new and shiny. The potential and possibility are thrilling, and I love getting to witness it in their eyes.

“Quite the successful night,” a deep, gravelly, familiar voice says from right behind me, sending a rush of heat down my spine, settling between my thighs.

My stomach fills with flutters and my mouth dries, knowing I can’t avoid Conway any longer. Even with him behind me, a small distance between us, his larger-than-life presence is impossible to ignore and feels like a physical touch all along my body. A gentle caress over my overheated skin, using a hand I know all too well to be calloused and skilled. The vein in my neck pulses rapidly, a thick, hazy cloud that has nothing to do with the wine swimming through my bloodstream, making me dizzy as I swallow around the lust-filled lump swelling in my throat.

“I would say so,” I murmur softly, keeping my eyes fixed on the sexy, yet tasteful, oil painting depicting a woman sitting nude in a field of wildflowers in front of me. Her fiery red hair is flowing down her back in the wind, the long column of her throat delicate, breasts small and taut. Eyes drawn shut, her expression is almost euphoric as she tilts her face toward the sky and bathes in the warm sun rays. “This is… wow,” I breathe, unable to formulate my thoughts as I take in the painting.

“Beautifully breathtaking,” Conway offers in a hushed tone, the two words spoken with such conviction it has me finally turning my head in his direction. Expecting to find his attention fixed on the painting in front of us, my heart skips a beat when I realize it’s not the painting he’s admiring.

It’s me.

The air in the room thins under the weight of his gaze, making it hard to breathe or think or, really, do anything at all. My skin tingles, sweat lining the back of my neck as I can do nothing but stand here as I’m sucked into his orbit. The rich, woodsy scent I’ve grown to associate with Conway is paired with spicy, musky notes from the cologne he’s wearing. My mouth waters as the intoxicating scent fills my senses.

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