I chuckle, leaning in close enough to bring my lips to the shell of her ear and whisper, “Want to know a secret? I hate truffle.”
Her head shoots up, whipping toward me, her eyes narrowing into an accusing glare. “You could’ve told me.”
Laughter bubbles out of me, and I lean back. “Where’s the fun in that? Watching you try to mask the horror was perfection.”
“Mean,” she mutters, but her laugh betrays her. Her elbow bumps mine as she pushes her plate aside.
Her nose scrunches adorably. “See, that’s the difference. My parents cooked pasta, tacos, fish… Meanwhile, you were probably raised on oysters and truffles.”
I grin. “Wrong. We didn’t eat that stuff unless we were at some restaurant, party, or gallery opening.”
I picture taking her to Sunday dinner at Grams’ to show her the home-cooked meals we had growing up.
The light-hearted tone wavers for a moment. A question hangs on the tip of my tongue, one I’d danced around before but never dared to ask. Tonight, though, it feels like the right time.
Before I speak again, a friend of Mr. Warne’s pulls me into a conversation about recent market trends. I nod along, offering advice while glancing at Karley, who’s engrossed in conversation with Paige and Eden. She laughs at something Eden says, looking completely at ease despite her earlier nervousness.
We finish dinner, and as the servers clear our plates, there’s a small break before dessert.
Karley leans close to me. “Would you like to check out the new art?”
“Lead the way,” I say, standing and offering her my hand.
She slips hers into mine, her fingers warm and sure. Together, we wander through the gallery, our hands interlocked as we examine the intricate strokes of paint and the emotion captured in each piece.
“For someone who never wears heels,” I say, “you’re doing amazing.”
“Don’t get your hopes up,” she says with a quirked eyebrow, touching my chest. “This isn’t becoming a thing.”
I lean closer, my voice dropping. “What if I end up buying the gallery? Will you wear them for opening night?”
“Only for opening night,” she replies with a smirk.
“Deal.” I move my lips to her ear. “Because I am going to get it.”
She playfully rolls her eyes as her smile grows. “So cocky.”
“And you love it,” I quip, earning a laugh that lights up her entire face.
The moment is interrupted by the soft chime of a bell as the waiter approaches. “Dessert is served.”
“Time to retake our seats,” I say, leading her back. There’s a reluctance in me to break this private moment we’ve created.Walking beside her, my hand in hers, feels natural and not just playing the part of husband and wife. The reason for tonight doesn’t seem quite as important as it did when we first arrived.
As the sound of silverware hitting glass hushes the room, Mr. Warne rises from his chair, his eyes sweeping the crowd. “I’d like to make a toast.”
Everyone turns toward him. My hand instinctively slips onto Karley’s thigh, and she interlaces her fingers with mine.
Mr. Warne’s voice carries over the quiet. “As most of you know, I’ve owned this gallery since I was young. I won’t bore you with numbers because, frankly, I don’t want you figuring out how old I am.”
Laughter ripples throughout the space, including my own, though mine comes from a place of tension rather than amusement. I catch Liam smiling across the table. We both know what’s coming. My grip on Karley’s hand tightens as I brace myself for Mr. Warne’s next words.
“But life has a funny way of telling you when it’s time for change.” His gaze drops to his wife, Eden, who smiles up at him with quiet encouragement.
“My sweet wife and I have decided it’s time to sell this gallery and retire. Truthfully, I’m scared. But with her by my side, I know life will be anything but dull.”
“I love you,” Eden whispers, her voice carrying through the silence.
Mr. Warne’s voice thickens with emotion. “This gallery isn’t just a place; it’s my heart. I wanted to pass it on to someone who would cherish it as much as I have. And so, I’d like to announce that the new owner will be… Oliver Lincoln.”
