Page 21 of Gravity of Love
“That’s amazing that you are following your passion!” Poppy enthused, miming a chef’s kiss. “It’s inspiring. That’s exactly what I want to do.”
“Oh, you’re an artist, too.” Frankie was already picturing days spent in a little studio she would rent, the two of them having lazy afternoons drinking tea while they discussed the projects they were working on and town gossip, when Poppy burst her jump-to-conclusion bubble.
“No!” Poppy shook her head. “I’m a liability on Pictionary family game nights. It’s so bad that to make it fair, whatever team gets stuck with me is automatically given a two verbal cue handicap.”
“Wow.” Frankie tried to hold it together but ended up laughing. “Sorry, that’s just?—”
“No, itisfunny. I’mthatbad.” Poppy was clearly not offended. “What I meant was I want to follow my passion.”
“Oh, okay. What’s your passion?”
She stopped abruptly and turned to face her. “That’s the problem. I have no clue. But I can tell you it isnottaking pictures of people’s insides.”
Frankie had no way to relate to her. She had alwayslovedart. From the time she could hold a crayon, it was how she expressed herself. “I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”
“We’ll see.” Poppy did not seem convinced. She leaned back on her heel, twisted her body, grabbed Frankie’s wrist, and pushed open the glass door with the For Lease sign on it. “Come on, you need to meet my brother.”
“Oh, no, I really can’t. I need to take my grandma to—” As much as Frankie appreciated Poppy’s gesture, her life was complicated enough in the man department.
She looked over her shoulder as she dragged her friend inside. “How many blank walls do you see? I’m decorating. This is kismet.”
“You don’t even know what kind of art I do.” She stumbled inside.
“It’s a doctor’s office, not the Louvre.” Poppy dropped her wrist once the door behind them closed.
Frankie’s eyes had to adjust for a second, but then she saw a folding table and two mismatched office chairs arranged in the center of the waiting area, a pile of fabric swatches and paint samples fanned out like a peacock’s tail between them. There was a single narrow hall in the center with nameplates on the doors, and a faint scent of dust and stale coffee lingered in the air.
Poppy shouted, “Hello, I’m here, and I brought an up-and-coming artist for you to meet. Youhaveto see her stuff!”
Frankie heard footsteps coming down the hallway, accompanied by the clickety-clack of nails.
“I don’t have any—” she started to protest that she has zero art on hand and not even a business card when a deep, familiarvoice became the background track for a cinematic slow-mo effect, as a tall, broad figure appeared, backlit by honeyed sunlight streaming in from the wide-open door at the end of the hall.
“Sorry, I was just letting?—”
Both stopped speaking the moment they saw each other.
Liam,Frankie’s brain said his name out loud, as if it needed the extra time to process.
He blinked once, his gaze locked on her as if he’d just seen a ghost. She had no clue what her expression was saying, but she did know what she was thinking. He looked like a walking contradiction—rumpled and composed, mountain man and city slicker, someone who could fix your transmission and ace a final at med school.
It was undeniable—even in civilian clothes—the guy looked like he belonged in a black-and-white photo, leaning against a vintage truck assessing the world with a kind of seductive cynicism. The old white t-shirt, soft and clinging to his broad shoulders and chest, the blue jeans faded in all the right places, work boots, a battered San Francisco Giants ball cap… but it was the scruff on his jaw, darker than she remembered, surrounding his perfect lips that sent tingles running up and down her arms in a jolting sensation like she’d stuck a fork in an electric socket.
She could barely contain the tide of feelings surging up from her chest. Shock, mostly. And confusion. And, if she was being honest, a geyser of attraction so fierce it bordered on humiliating.
Frankie was suddenly hyperaware of every square inch of her bare skin, every imperfection. Her too-skinny arms, insufficient cleavage, and the untoned area between the underband of her sports bra and the waistband of her yoga pants. Every flaw her skintight clothing revealed. The zit that had shown up the weekafter she’d arrived with her period that was still hanging out on her forehead.
Poppy didn’t even seem to notice their awkward interaction. She was too busy squatting down welcoming the puppy—a chubby, brown-furred, possibly part Ewok—who came barreling out of nowhere and hurled itself into her arms. She giggled through introductions. “Liam this is Frankie. Frankie, this is my brother Liam.”
“Hi.” Liam greeted her as if she were a stranger.
“Hi,” she replied, following his lead.
Frankie wasn’t sure what was going on. Was this really going to play out like that? Like he didn’t know her? Was that how ashamed he was of their past?
“Frankie’s anamazingartist, and we’re gonna buy her art for the office.”
“Sheisamazing.” Liam paused, and Frankie’s breath caught. He hadn’t broken their eye contact. “I’ve seen her work.”
