True Art

Chapter Four

REMINGTON'S POV

I circled the room and sipped my glass of wine, keeping an eye on Sean as he studied a large sculpture about ten feet away from me. I surveyed the stark white walls and took another gulp of white wine, needing it for the butterfly feeling in my stomach. I was too old to be feeling this way, but I couldn't seem to help it. And over a man I'd barely met the day before? It was ludicrous.

Sean and I had arrived at the gallery just before eight and the exhibition was well underway. It was one of these new pop-up style galleries, and they were exhibiting a group collection by new local artists.

I had a lot of clients that coveted exclusive pieces, the old school reliable. My passion was for vibrant new pieces -- undiscovered artists, or those tipped to be the next big thing. Some of my big-money clients loved these sorts of pieces too, so being here wasn't a bad idea. Maybe I'd find something that would be perfect for one of my clients. I'd know it as soon as I saw it. It would be the one that spoke to me and drew me into its canvas.

"Is he here?" Sean sipped his orange juice and scanned the busy room.

"No, I don't think so. He's probably gone home. It's nearly finished now." There was a distinct gnawing pain in the pit of my stomach. I'd wanted Matthew to be here, to see him again and find out if this really was just my imagination or whether there was something there.

"I'm going to circle the room. You go that way, and we'll meet back at the other side," Sean said.

"But you don't even know what he looks like."

Sean grinned and leaned close to me. "I'll keep an eye out for a dashingly good-looking man, who is also far too young for either of us."

I rolled my eyes and watched my silly friend saunter off in the opposite direction. The bright downlights flooded the walls and created a warmth in the air. We'd been there for at least twenty minutes, and at first, I had almost been relieved that there had been no sign of Matthew. But the gallery was closing at nine, and as the minutes ticked by, I grew a little sad. It would have been nice to see him, even just to talk about his art. I'd probably imagined the entire chemistry thing, and it was nothing but wishful thinking on my part.

I'd still like to get to know him though. To listen to him chat about art and what he liked, what inspired him and his work. To listen to him explain how he created his pieces, capturing those intense moments of nature, pulsing from the painting and making me feel things.

I shook my head, physically trying to free my thoughts. A large red and black abstract piece caught my attention and I paused before it. The title card read, "Oil on canvas. Destruction." I stared at the ominous painting and grimaced. No, that certainly wasn't the one.

After passing another few paintings, I stopped and looked back across the room over to the far wall, searching for Sean. I caught sight of him for a second before he disappeared in the crowd. Then another glimpse, only this time it wasn't my friend. I started walking in the direction of the familiar face, and then, as if by magic, the crowd cleared, revealing a stunning painting. A seascape of dazzling gold and sharp blue, tangled in textured impasto, rendering it three-dimensional and utterly glorious.

"That's it," I whispered to myself, forgetting all about the familiar face and now transfixed by the beauty of the painting. "That's the one."

"I don't know, it seems a bit... busy." The voice was familiar and sent heat running through me just like the first time we had met.

Matthew stood beside me, his hands stuffed in his jeans, a soft cotton shirt hanging loosely, and he sort of glowed under the bright spotlights of the gallery.