Total pages in book: 121
Estimated words: 116759 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 584(@200wpm)___ 467(@250wpm)___ 389(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 116759 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 584(@200wpm)___ 467(@250wpm)___ 389(@300wpm)
“I have a secret,” Sebastian suddenly blurted out as we crossed the main street and took a shortcut through the cobbled lane I wouldn’t have dreamed of taking alone at night.
I raised an eyebrow at his boyish outburst. “What kind of secret?”
He rubbed his nape, huffing in bemusement. “I don’t know what it is about you …”
“Okay …?”
“Only Juno knows. I lie quite easily to everyone else about this.” He stopped in the middle of the lane. “But I trust you, and I don’t quite understand it.”
“It’s because I’m trustworthy.” I pointed to my dimples as I grinned. “These are the dimples of a truly trustworthy person.”
Sebastian chuckled, his eyes twinkling warmly. Whatever this lie was, I didn’t believe for a second it was harmful.
Because … despite our inauspicious start … I trusted him too.
He started walking again but tapped on his phone screen. “It’s easier to show you.”
I took the phone, brimming over with curiosity. When I tripped on a cobble, Sebastian took my arm, guiding me so I could keep looking at the screen.
Once more, it was a social media account. I scrolled through the feed of beautiful time-lapse videos. I stood there for what could have been minutes watching a man whose face never turned to the camera, create impressionist paintings using a mix of techniques from splattering the paint on canvas and then finessing the details with palette knives and brushes. What started out as an abstract mess turned into extraordinary works of art by the end. There were lots of scenes from Edinburgh’s cityscape but also places I didn’t recognize. A quick scroll to the top of the account showed it had fifty-seven thousand followers. There was a link in the bio to a website. A quick click on it showed me it sold originals and prints.
I recognized the back of the man doing all the painting.
Understanding, I gaped at Sebastian, suddenly seeing him in a new light. “You’re an artist too.”
His lips curved upward. “Yes. A secret one.”
“And a phenomenal one.” I glanced back down at the phone, clicking on a painting of a lamppost in St. Mary’s Close in the snow. The way the light caught the snowflakes was eerie and beautiful. “Thorne, these are stunning.”
“Thank you.” His voice sounded extra gruff. “I’m glad you think so.”
“But how do you pull this off without anyone knowing?”
“I rent a tiny studio not far from your place. It’s actually a one-bedroom flat with a massive bay window in the living room that lets in a ton of light. I use an online printer for the prints, but I pack all those up myself and post them out. It can be time-consuming if one of my images or Reels takes off, since I then get a surge of purchases. The originals have been selling well too. I have a company do the professional packing and shipping for those. The prints are the most time-consuming part. Last night I got fifty orders. I need to go to the flat tomorrow morning and start packaging them up.”
“I’ll help,” I offered without thinking, more than curious to see this studio of his.
“Lily, you have your own stuff to do. I can manage.”
“Let me help.”
Sebastian began walking again. “You really want to?”
“I really want to. Did you know my dad is a professional photographer?”
His eyebrows rose. “Yeah?”
“He does private events mostly, but he’s started something similar to what you’re doing on socials. I’ve helped him curate wedding albums.”
“Wow. I’d love to see his work.”
“I’ll show you sometime. So? Can I help tomorrow?”
“Of course you can help.”
I asked him what his plans were for his art in the future, and Sebastian shrugged as we approached my flat. “No plans, really. It’s a passion project. I’ll forge ahead with my degree.”
His words rang false to me. Almost like he was lying to himself. “Juno is making money from her pottery. Why shouldn’t you continue to make money from your art? You should do it if it would make you happy.”
“Being a painter is not the practical choice. Juno loves the struggling artist shtick because we have a trust fund, so it’s not exactly struggling. But I want the trust fund to be a backup. I don’t want to be living off it.” He grimaced. “Tell me if I sound like a privileged arsehole.”
I let us into the building, lowering my voice to a whisper so as not to wake my neighbors. “You are privileged, but you don’t sound like a privileged arsehole. A privileged arsehole wouldn’t ask if he sounded like a privileged arsehole. You have to do what feels right to you. But if you’re in the position to do what makes you happy, I would. If you ever want to talk to my dad about turning it into a business, I’m happy to arrange that.”