Page 40 of Scarlett and the Big Bad Billionaire
But I’d made peace with it, and my gut and I were once again on speaking terms. And since rediscovering my love of painting, I’d become completely in touch with my feelings.
At the moment they were pinging all over the room, thanks to Scarlett’s close proximity.
“You definitely did. You said it, all cocky and sure of yourself. I remember things about that week, too, you know,” Scarlett said.
Stepping even closer, I looked down at her. I was completely invading her personal space—but that’s exactly what I meant to do.
Something in me wanted to…botherher.
Scarlett made me feel like a middle-schooler who had no idea how to talk to girls but craved their attention and acted out in ridiculous ways to get it.
“Oh yeah?” I asked. “Which things?”
She pushed at my belly, which was at her eye level. “You’re disgusting. Get back to work.”
Laughing, I went to stand in front of the next painting. It was an original by Inksy. I seriously doubted Victoria wanted to auctionthisoff—it had been a gift from a friend.
“What do you think of this one?” I asked over my shoulder. “It’s calledConfluence.”
“It’s decent, I guess,” Scarlett said, making me bark with startled laughter.
“Decent? This painting was just appraised at twenty-five million dollars.”
She squinted at it. “Is it worth it though? What makes a painting or sculpture valuable? I mean it’s all so subjective. I read about a guy who ate a whole bunch of fruit and then spread his… poopy all over a canvas and called it art. It sold for almost two million dollars.”
Her use of the toddler word “poopy” combined with the ridiculous story took the sting out of the insult she’d just hurled at the highly acclaimed painting on the wall.
“You’re comparingConfluenceto ‘fruity poopy?’”
“No, I told you I think it’s okay.” She seemed flustered.
“I feel like I can at least understand that one. Most art makes me feel… inferior,” she confessed. “No, that’s not the right word. It’s… intimidating, I guess. It makes me feel ignorant, like I don’t know whether it’s good or bad or what I’m supposed to think about it or how it’s supposed to make me feel.”
“There is no ‘supposed to’ when it comes to art,” I said. “There’s no right way to think about it or right way to feel. You think what you think and feel what you feel. That’s kind of the whole point. It’s created to make you feelsomething—and that something is going to be different for every person.”
“For instance, how does looking at this one make you feel?” I gestured to the Inksy, keeping my tone casual, not wanting her to suspect how invested I was in her answer.
Scarlett flushed and looked away, her shoulders tensing. “I don’t know.”
“Yes, you do. There’s no wrong answer. Just say the first thing that comes to mind.”
“I don’t know… hungry?”
“Hungry?” That one took me by surprise. Though the painting was abstract, it had nothing to do with food.
“I don’t mean like hungry for food,” she explained. “It makes me feel like… like Iwantsomething. It’s filled with longing… with desire.”
For a moment all I could do was stare. My heart was blocking my throat, so speech was impossible.
This woman, who claimed to know nothing about art, had seen directly through the painting—to me.
She’d seen the exact things I’d been feeling when I created it. It was a surreal experience.
Her eyebrows lowered, and she gave me an insecure look. “Is that a stupid answer?”
“No.” My hand shot out to grip her arm, but I let it go just as quickly and let my hand fall to my side. “No, not at all. I think you’re right. I think that’s what the artist was trying to convey. Probably.”
“Who’s the artist?” she asked.
