Chapter 9
I had forgotten what it felt like to wake up excited. For the past few days, every sunrise brought with it a new version of me–one that wasn’t shackled by guilt, rejection, or empty promises. I had found something that felt like breathing again.
Painting.
My fingers had remembered the strokes before my mind did. It came back slowly, like light creeping under a closed door. Every canvas I touched felt like reclaiming a part of my soul. Rair had even cleared out a comer of her apartment and said, “This is your studio now. It’s about time the world saw what you can do.”
So I painted. And I smiled.
When I wasn’t painting, I was job hunting. I needed a stable income–something that would give structure to this new life I was building. I heard about a small but growing gallery downtown that was looking for curators and part–time assistants. It was a long shot, but I applied anyway.
Today was the interview.
I wrapped my coat tighter and rushed down the cobbled sidewalk with a takeaway coffee cup in hand. The chill in the air had bite, but I didn’t mind. I had my portfolio tucked under one arm, heels clicking fast on the pavement.
Just five minutes to spare.
I was about to cross the last street when it happened.
I turned the corner–and collided into someone solid.
The impact jolted through my bones and before I could even process, the hot coffee slipped from my fingers and spilled all over the man’s shirt.
“Oh my God! I’m so sorry!” I gasped, eyes wide in horror.
The man stepped back, startled, but didn’t yell or curse.
“It’s fine,” he said quickly, brushing at the wet fabric. “I wasn’t looking either.”
“No, no, this is my fault! You’re completely drenched–I mean not drenched but–your shirt-”
He held up a hand, his voice calm, his tone almost amused. “Really, it’s okay. I’ve got a spare one in the car. I’m in a rush, too.”
“I can pay for the dry cleaning,” I stammered, digging for my wallet.
He shook his head, gave me a polite half–smile, and without another word, jogged across the street before I could see much more of his face–only a glimpse. Tall. Sharp jawline. Clean cut. Handsome.
I stood frozen for a moment, coffee–less and still apologizing to the air.
Great start, Alicia. Real smooth.
With barely a moment to breathe, I turned and hurried toward the gallery. My nerves were already high, and now I was half–convinced I smelled like caffeine and panic.
The gallery’s exterior was sleek and modern, glass walls that made it look more like a contemporary museum than a local exhibit space. I checked in at the front desk and was led to
2:56 pm D DDD.
a waiting area. I sat down, clutching my portfolio like it might keep my heart from racing out of my chest.
This would be the first time in years I’d present myself as an artist to someone who didn’t already know me. Who didn’t carry my baggage or my last name.
They called my name.
I passed the initial interview with the assistant curator–she liked my technique, praised my color theory, and said my eye for emotion was impressive. Then she smiled and said I was moving forward… to meet the gallery’s owner.
My stomach twisted. I stood, smoothed my blouse, and followed the assistant down the long hallway to a glass office at the end.
She knocked once and opened the door. “Mr. Thorne? Your next interview is here.”
I stepped in and stopped short.
The man behind the desk stood up–and my heart dropped.
It was him.
Coffee–shirt guy.
His tie was different now, navy blue. His shirt dry. But it was undeniably him. And judging by the flicker of surprise in his eyes… he remembered me, too.
We stared at each other in a silence that stretched just long enough to be awkward.
“…You,” I breathed before I could stop myself.
He blinked once, then let out a soft chuckle, leaning back against the desk. “Well, this is unexpected.”
I wanted to shrink into the floor.
He tilted his head slightly, studying me. “No coffee in hand this time?”
“I swear I don’t make it a habit of assaulting people with hot beverages,” I blurted.
He grinned–an actual grin–and held out his hand. “I’m Julian Thorne. Owner and director of Thorne Gallery.”
I stared at his hand like it might bite me.
He waited.
Then I stepped forward and shook it.
“Alicia Montero,” I said, steadying my voice.
Our hands touched briefly. His grip was warm, firm–but not overpowering.
“Well, Miss Montero,” Julian said, motioning to the chair across from him, “I’m very interested to
hear more about your work… assuming you don’t spill anything on my desk.”
The tension broke with our laughter, but my heart was still racing.
2:56 pm DDDD
“Julian Thorne? As in the Julian Thorne?”
