The Art of Stealing Kisses (Stealing Hearts Book 2) by Stella London Read Free Book Online

be.
    “Grace?”
St. Clair is
at my elbow. “Sorry
that took so long. We’re
finalizing the details of the show and as you know, artists can
be…particular.”
    I
laugh. “That’s
very diplomatic of you. Now, what show would that be?”
I pull out my
notebook and pen like a reporter, a trick I learned from Paige, who
is always saying her notes are her lifesavers.
    “Right,”
St. Clair
says, shaking his head like he can’t
believe himself. “Sorry
again. I haven’t
even told you what you’ll
be doing here, have I?”
    “Not
in so many words,” I
admit.
    “My
company is sponsoring a graduation show for the college. It’s
a whole event, with a huge opening the press will attend and all the
big names in the industry. It’s
a big honor for the students who are chosen to exhibit their final
pieces.”
    I
nod. “I’m
sure it can jumpstart careers. Change lives.”
    He
agrees, “It
does, which is why the professors always bring in an impartial
outside judge.”
    “That’s
a big task,” I
say, figuring he must have to look at hundreds of portfolios. “Do
you want me to vet the first round?”
    He
grins. “I
want you to select the honorees.”
    I
catch my tongue before blurting out Me? like a moron. “Are
you sure? It wasn’t
so long ago I was a student myself.”
    He
leads me down a hallway. “I
want to show you something.”
We stop in front of a studio space, and I peer through the big glass
window at five easels set up, with painters focused and working
behind each. A professor wanders the room, critiquing, wiggling her
fingers at some folks and gesturing wildly in sweeping motion with
her arms at others.
    The
smell of paint and just-stretched canvas is thick in the air. I take
a deep breath, letting memories of classes and afternoons spent with
my brush guiding my hand wash over me. “This
takes me back.”
    “Exactly,”
St. Clair
says. He points to the students, who don’t
pay any attention to us. In the zone. “You
know how much this will mean to those students, and you have no
ulterior motives or political agenda, so you are the perfect person
to choose the winners.”
    “But
who’s
to say what the best really is?”
I ask, nervous.
    He
raises an eyebrow. “Well,
you, for one, being my art consultant. That’s
part of your job.”
    I
frown. “You
know what I mean, right? Art is so subjective—why
should my opinion matter more than someone else’s?”
    “Because
it does.”
St. Clair looks at me. “You
have a gift at seeing the deeper emotion of a piece. It’s
why I hired you. Your opinion matters more than anyone’s.”
    I
have to look away.
    I
watch the students working, their faces concentrated, their brushes
dipping and lifting from canvas to palette. I think about what
possibilities may have been out there for me if I’d
been able to finish my scholarship at the prestigious east coast
college where I met Paige. What an award like this would have meant
for me.
    “Someone’s
life is going to change dramatically after this,”
I tell him.
Not unlike mine did recently. The universe is funny like that, giving
us the thing we want only after we’ve
given up hope. Maybe because it’s
then that we are finally willing to take a risk.
    “Just
follow your instincts,” he
reassures me.
    We
walk back to the main entrance, but fatigue hits me like a bullet
train and I’m
suddenly too tired to stand. I wobble a little and St. Clair steadies
me. “You
okay?”
    “I
think I may need to lie down.”
    He
chuckles softly. “I
told you, jet-lag is no joke.” He
slips an arm around me. “Now,
the TSA, that’s
a joke.”
    “Haha,”
I say, but
I’m
practically letting him carry me as we begin walking back to the
front of the building. “Sorry
to be such a pain.”
    “Not
at all,” he
says, always a gentleman. “Let’s
get you back to the apartment so you can sleep. We have plenty of
time for this, so take tomorrow to rest and settle in.”
    “Thanks,”
I murmur. A
whole day to