Page 3 of True Fate

Justin raised his glass and glanced at his agent over the rim. He’d forgotten what it was like to host visitors from New York. They couldn’t get over the endless cotton fields or the gorgeous women with honeyed accents. Inevitably, he ended up apologizing for an indiscretion he hadn’t benefited from to keep neighborly peace.

Once, he’d even sent flowers on behalf of a moderately famous poet who’d never given a woman a damn thing in his life aside from an STD. That marked the last time Justin invited a writer to his South Carolina gallery. Painters had been jettisoned from the list the year prior. Sculptors, the year before that.

Agents were looking to make the cut this year.

The gallery door opened, letting in the echo of the bluegrass trio playing outside. Looking back, Justin tilted his head to dodge the glint of fading sunlight cutting through the window.

His heart stuttered as he polished off his gin between two tight breaths.

He didn’t believe in miracles, coincidence, or fate. Work, art, and sex topped his list most days. Sleep smuggled somewhere in-between.

Once, he’d believed in fate and had his guts ripped out for the trouble.

By the woman who’d just walked into his gallery.

Justin tracked Lainey Prescott’s progress as conversation swirled around him. She looked different, older, more refined in a floor-dusting linen sundress that quivered with each step. If he were to sketch her, adding to the thousands he’d already done, he’d add chalky grooves at the corners of her eyes and mouth—signs of experiences he hadn’t shared with her. The cutest goddamn shag cut he’d ever seen tickled her jaw as she turned, her tour carrying her past his cousin Campbell’s photography exhibit and into the row of paintings that were mostly his. Her hair was a shade darker, more burnt caramel than freshly-shorn wheat.

His gaze dropped to her left hand. The absence of a wedding ring struck him with a jolt he feared like hell was relief.

She halted before a painting he’d finished three months after leaving Promise. One of the oldest in the gallery, it was a personal favorite he couldn’t part with.

Would she recognize the scene? Or notice the title on the brass plate?

She tilted her head in contemplation, and it brought to mind the first time he’d seen her, draped over the hood of Alvin Shaw’s Corvette, grime-spattered jeans clinging to her slender legs, that exquisite wealth of hair pulled into a high ponytail, the oil-streaked ends flicking the rounded curve of her breast.

He’d stopped by her uncle’s garage to have an irritating hiccup in his engine checked out, and instead, given his heart to the new girl in town.

From the first moment, he’d been utterly lost.

Fuck, if it hadn’t taken years—and one too many nameless encounters—to forget her. His need for Lainey Prescott had once felt etched into his skin, permanent and inescapable, like the tattoo he’d gotten during a drunken night out after landing his first gallery opening.

Shaking off the blistering memories, Justin nodded to his agent, Brent, though he had no idea what they’d been talking about.

Maybe Lainey wouldn’t even recognize him.

The earring was gone, along with the wallet chain and the messy haircut he cringed to remember. He’d grown three inches his freshman year, and now only wore Chuck Taylors and Doc Martens when he was in Brooklyn. No more black eyes or bruised jaws from unleashing his impulsive temper. The chipped front tooth—courtesy of a punch he hadn’t ducked—smoothed into perfection. The acid-washed jeans were out, though he still had a soft spot for a good flannel now and then. A successful career as an architect, part-time art dealer, and hobbyist painter had brought with it dentistry, tailored clothing, and a personal trainer.

And unlike those troubling high school years, he had all the canvases he desired to slap paint on.

Lainey trailed her finger along a sculpture of Dionysus as she passed it, the god’s arms raised to the heavens. The carefree gesture sent a twist of heat shooting from Justin’s heart to his dick—a surge of lust laced with all the desperation and love, the highs and lows, of the most unforgettable summer of his life.

Misery and absolute fucking pleasure.

Gazing into those pewter eyes of hers would only buy him a ticket to the past.

When he was quite happy in the present.

“Those two by the statue,” Brent murmured behind the event flyer he’d rolled like a scroll. “Introduce me.”

Justin wondered how many gins it would take to get him through the night. “Down, boy. You’re here to sell art, remember?”

“I’m an excellent multitasker, True.”

Justin exhaled slowly. Jealousy didn’t have a place in his life, it simply didn’t. “Just don’t scare off the clientele.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” With a pointed glance toward Lainey, Brent added, “The petite one in the silky black number is the most interesting thing I’ve seen all week. Do you know her?”

Justin swiped Brent’s glass and knocked back the scotch—not his drink of choice, but this night suddenly called for stronger measures. His car would be staying in town, he decided. Good thing he lived close. “I did. Once.”

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