Her gaze searches mine. I’m not a big fan of prolonged eye contact. It gives me the sense that my soul’s being excavated and my skin’s been stung by a swarm of bees. So I let her look for only a moment before I stare down at my boots.

“Is there hurt tied to the act of painting?” she asks.

“It just kicks up . . . a lot of feelings.”

“Ah yes,” she says gently. “We paint from our hearts. And when our hearts have been hurt, our art can hurt, too.”

“Yes,” I manage, around the growing lump thickening my voice.

Nothing but melodramatic string music fills the air until Grace says, “Are you ready to try again?” Picking up the brush I have yet to do anything with but spin in three dozen shades of primary colors, she examines it.

I peer up at her, my eyes blurring with tears. “I think so. It’s just that, starting, that first step . . . It’s really scary.”

“I know.” She nods and smiles gently. “I know that very well. But if your heart wants it, then you can do it. I promise.” She places the brush in my hand. “Blank canvas. Fresh paint. Courageous heart. You’re ready.”

Grace pats my shoulder gently. “Now back to my fresh canvas,” she says with a coy smile.

“Thank you,” I tell her.

“Don’t thank me. Thank the person who knew exactly what you needed.”

When she steps away, my vision fills with the man behind her, the man who was behind it all, every layer of this evening.

“James Benedick Westenberg.”

He avoids my eyes, staring faithfully at his canvas. “At your service.”

“You heard all of that, didn’t you?”

He clears his throat. A blush hits his cheeks. “Rather hard not to. Grace has the lungs of an opera singer.”

My laugh catches before it almost becomes a sob. “Jamie. Look at me.”

He does. And when his eyes meet mine, my heart unlocks in a quiet, earth-tipping click.

“Is . . .” He hesitates, searching my eyes. “Is everything all right? Do you want to stop? We can, if it’s too much—”

“No,” I tell him, exhaling shakily. “And yes.”

His brow furrows. “I don’t understand.”

How do I tell Jamie nothing is all right, not when I look at him and feel this?

How do I admit that I never want to stop, even though I’m afraid of what comes next?

How do I explain that this is too much? Looking at him, knowing that once again I have a blank canvas, that my heart is stretched wide open, begging for love to fill it with color.