The museum director faced the crowd. “Everyone, raise a glass for this evening’s brilliant artist. To Helen!”
“Helen!” Voices thundered in unison as afficionados lifted their wine goblets, then sipped the crimson nectar.
Helen drank in the praise, her gaze focused on the lone glass that remained lifted. The vessel lowered, revealing the frank blue eyes of its beholder.
I cleared pizza boxes and take-out bags from the sofa so I could sit, peeled off my socks, and tossed them on the floor, too. I hadn’t brushed my teeth, answered Mom’s texts, or checked the bank messages I’d been ignoring for days.
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At first, Dorian Gray found it intoxicating, being the eternally youthful, dashingly handsome hockey star. Fans mobbed him after games, eager for his autograph.
Competitors who slammed him into the boards, only to see him jump up unscathed, didn’t understand how he did it.
“You have so much beautiful art here, Dorian,” she said between kisses, running her fingers through his golden hair. “It must have taken you a long time to acquire it all.”
If you only knew. He pressed his lips against hers again. “A long time and a lot of money. But none of it is as beautiful as you, Victoria.”
“Too far.”
Bang. Bang. Bang.
I sped up to the portrait gallery.
“Nope.” Victor muttered to himself as he raised the hammer.
Bang. Bang—
I snatched the tool from his grasp.
He spun, his expression shifting from annoyance to welcome. “Jean-Luc!”
I glowered back. “Why, pray tell, are you banging holes in my walls?”
“I’m hanging a portrait!”
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