Love Abstract (The Art of Falling Book 2) Read Online Free

Welcome, even. I feel heat in every cell of my body and I whimper for more.
    “And just because you’re mine.”
    The slow timbre in Phoenix’s voice makes me so weak in the knees that I just want to die right here in his arms. Instead, he presses his lips softly to mine and breathes me back to life. When he pulls away, he stares straight through me. His eyes say more than words ever could.
    “Come on,” he says tilting his head toward the door. “Let’s get you home. I want to make you breakfast for dinner.”
    I grab my clutch from behind the desk and slip my hand into his.
    It fits perfectly.
    Just like everything else with him in my life.

 
     
    I LOOK AROUND THE GALLERY. It’s so empty now that Dane has cleared out. The scent of fresh paint burns my nose each time I inhale, but it’s admittedly therapeutic. There’s something to be said about starting over. Each wall is a blank canvas, just waiting for the next story to be told.
    As much as I love the emptiness of the gallery between exhibits, I hate being in the back office when no one else is around. My mind plays tricks on me. I keep thinking I hear people in the gallery, but when I come out of the back office, there’s no one there. As a result, I much prefer to be at the open desk in the main part of the gallery
    How is it only eleven?
    This is single-handedly the longest day ever .
    I open a browser and type Brock Coulter into the search bar. Dozens of results generate and I click an interview translated from a French newspaper. I quickly gather that this guy is a piece of work. He’s nearly forty but acts like he’s nineteen. A self-proclaimed playboy who never keeps the same man for more than one night. And he spent an evening in jail in Paris for urinating off of the Pont des Arts Bridge.
    I haven’t even met the guy and already I’m sure that I’m a fan. I click back to the search results and scan through the links, hoping to get a better sense of his art. After all, that is arguably more important than the content of his character. I stumble onto what appears to be a fan website and what I find completely blows me away. There are pages upon pages of nonsensical sculptures made from PVC pipes, fast food wrappers, and one even made from human hair. It’s intriguing, at best. But the shadows on the wall behind them is where the true art lies. Upon turning on the spotlight, the PVC pipes cast the shadow of a boat on the ocean. Fast food wrappers reveal someone hovering over a toilet. And the human hair creates a tornado with debris kicked up all around it.
    Nothing is what it seems at first glance. And every sculpture harbors a secret until the lights go down and the spotlight shines on it. It’s truly stunning, and kind of like people— what you see isn’t necessarily what you get. Sometimes you see something completely different and beautiful when the light hits you just right. Hopefully, this theory applies to Brock as well because I’m not sure I have it in me to tolerate a thirty-something party boy.
    My phone chimes, pulling my focus away from the computer.
     
    Phoenix: How’s your day going?
     
    Ivy: Eh, kinda boring. Just doing some research on the next artist in residence.
     
    Phoenix: Want to grab lunch?
     
    Ivy: I can’t head out since Farrah is coming by at some point. Want to bring lunch in?
     
    Phoenix: Sounds great! I’ll be over in 20.
     
    Ivy: Perfect. See you soon! xoxo
     
    Phoenix really lucked out finding an architecture firm needing a landscape architect when we moved to New York. Landscape architects aren’t exactly in high demand these days, but Smyth & McCabe were in the process of expanding their offering to skyline oases in the city, which Phoenix claims is just another fancy way to say rooftop garden. Even better, he’s a ten-minute cab ride away in light traffic. His boss, Carl McCabe, has been a wonderful mentor for Phoenix, and the pair have been hard at work pulling together a pitch for a new rooftop