Page 82 of Rival Season
The curator smiles. “Yes. And she’s a San Francisco native, too.”
“I’d like to purchase it.”
The woman presses her palms together. “I’m so sorry, this is already sold.”
“I’ll pay double what they paid,” Fisher counters.
The curator blinks. “Umm, I’ll be right back.” She tips her head and leaves us.
Penn grabs Fisher’s shoulder. “What if it’s, like, a million dollars?” he asks in a hushed whisper.
“Thankfully, Santi is still a local artist; her work hasn’t gone global yet,” Fisher says, his eyes bright and twinkling. “I wonder what she looks like,” he muses. “I bet she’s gorgeous.”
Penn huffs a laugh through his nose. “Or she’s like eighty.”
Noah laughs. “Yeah, Fishy, she could be old enough to be your mom.”
Fisher shrugs his shoulders. “Depending what she looked like, I could get on board with an older woman.”
Ally groans. “You’re incorrigible.”
Fisher smirks. “If Penn can bag himself a hottie who’s older, so can I.”
Everyone laughs at this, including me. Now that Penn and I have talked about us, I’m no longer as bothered by our age gap.
The clack of the curator’s stilettos gets our attention as she makes her way back to our group. She’s smiling, so hopefully she has good news for Fisher. “You’re in luck, sir. The buyer is willing to sell the painting to you for five-thousand.”
“Sold,” Fisher says without skipping a beat.
My eyes widen. I can’t imagine spending thousands of dollars without even batting an eyelash.
The curator claps her hands together. “Lovely. I’ll have you fill out the purchase agreement, and you can pick up the painting on Monday during business hours.”
Fisher follows her to the front to complete the paperwork, and the rest of us finish walking through the gallery. Ally and Noah walk ahead of us, while Penn and I purposefully lag behind to snag a moment alone. We stop in front of a black-and-white photograph of a moose standing in front of a gorgeous mountain scape.
“Look, it’s the land of your people,” I tease.
Penn chuckles, coming up behind me and wrapping his arms around my shoulders. He nestles his face into the crook of my neck. “Don’t tell the guys I said this, but moose are actually kind of terrifying.”
Closing my eyes, I soak in the warmth of his body, not paying attention to whatever he’s saying about the photograph.
“It feels so good to be with you like this,” he whispers. “Forreal.”
I hum. “Yes, it does.”
“We’re together, and Chadwick is out of your hair.”
“It’s almost crazy how perfect everything worked out, huh?” I ask, bending my neck to look up at him.
He smiles down at me before kissing my forehead. “Yeah, it’s almost too perfect.”
“Pucking hell,” Fisher’s voice comes from a few feet away. “You two are disgusting today. After spending so much time with lovesick couples this evening, I need to go home and call some single teammates to hit the bars with me.”
“I’m sorry I took away your wingman, Fisher,” I say with a grin.
“I’m not,” Penn says.
Fisher rolls his eyes, but I know he’s kidding around and not actually mad—plus, there’s a glint in his eyes now that he bought the painting. Like he won something big. “You guys ready to head back to the loft?
