Midnight in Montmartre

s, 4

melled of turpenti

f his grief. The portrait was supposed to be of her-Claire, with her wildflower laugh and the way sunlight caught

member how to

héo wiped his hands on his already ruined shirt and reached for the bo

y to this place

ng in the da

a blade betw

curls escaping their pins. She looked exactly as she had the night she'd walked out tw

him in a rush. "You

epping into the slant of s

eeks

bill and a gallery invitation. Théo almost missed it-just a

the p

s. No exp

d pinned the note to his wall and tried-really tried-to add a sin

is fist through

ent

mine and vanilla-filling the space between them. She stopp

no mouth,"

tened. "You took y

he rain t

er the dried paint. "I lied," she said soft

the air like pigment su

face her full

. "Because love isn't always enoug

from her pocket-a train ticket to

's," she said. "But I couldn

ht of all the things he'd swallowed these past years-his jealousy of her success, his resentment w

e a wildfire. No w

" he r

aused at

of her favorite lipstick, the one she'd left on his collar a hundred

il

breath

ished," Théo

lips, nodded once, and d

Year

héo's new collection-The Unfinished Series-canvases fil

the others: a woman's smile in crimson, her outl

Canvas of

cream coat studied it, her fingers brush

approach h

years, he picked up his