Total pages in book: 74
Estimated words: 75195 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 376(@200wpm)___ 301(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75195 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 376(@200wpm)___ 301(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
“I’m still asking. Then, you can get hooked and I can make fun of you.”
We entered Fine Arts Emporium.
The scent of paint, wood, and old paper filled my nostrils.
However, as I perused the store, it was hard to shove Scarlett’s word out of my head.
Am I being extra with the gift?
I sighed and went with my gut.
The store was a treasure trove of artistic tools and curiosities.
I wandered through the narrow aisles, my fingers lightly grazing items—brushes, canvases, and pallets.
What would a successful artist want? And more important, what is a present that wouldn’t scream. . .dick-whipped?
“What about this?” Scarlett held up a vintage inkwell. The glass shimmered in the lighting.
I shook my head. “No, it has to be something that speaks to him.”
“And what would that be? You barley know the man.”
“True.” I nodded and continued forward. “Then. . .it has to be something that speaks to me about him.”
Scarlett murmured, “Dick-whipped.”
I rolled my eyes.
Chuckling, she passed me. “Anyway. This is cute seeing you get so worked up over a guy.”
“I’m not worked up.”
“You are, but take your time in here.” She stopped at several books on art. “You’ll know what gift you want to get him when you see it.”
We began to explore the huge space.
Further in the back, the scent of oil paints intermingled with the subtle fragrance of leather-bound handmade sketchbooks.
I caught the quiet murmur of hushed conversations between artists and other store clerks.
Rounding the corner, I spotted brushes of every size and shape hanging on the walls.
I continued on.
“Psst.”
I glanced over my shoulder.
Scarlett pointed to a display of watercolors. “You can get these and tell him to paint you.”
“Girl, I can’t tell an artist of his caliber to paint me. He has more to do with his life.”
“But, wouldn’t it be so crazy if he did?”
“It would be amazing.”
“That’s like the sexiest thing.” Scarlett got to my side and walked with me. “If I’m dating an artist and he paints me, then he’s getting the panties forever.”
“For. Ever.” I snapped my fingers.
“The for and the ever.”
I laughed. “Okay. Stop distracting me. I still can’t find it. I need something that would resonate with Tristan’s artistic soul.”
“Resonate with what?” Chuckling, Scarlett shook her head. “I cannot with you right now.”
“Don’t laugh at me.”
“It’s hard not to.”
A woman walked up to us. She had dark brown skin with ebony dreadlocks that were streaked with gray. “Hello, my name is Reba. How can I help you?”
“Thank you so much.” Scarlett pointed at me. “She needs all the help. Every bit of it.”
I rolled my eyes.
Reba looked at me. “Looking for anything special?”
I hesitated, feeling an unexpected shyness. “I want to get a gift for a new friend.”
“A little more than a new friend.” Scarlett winked.
“A special new friend.”
Scarlett added, “And he has skilled fingers—”
“Anyway.” I shoved my bestie. “She means he is very talented.”
“Super talented.” Scarlett chuckled.
With a knowing smile, Reba clasped her hands together. “Ah, a gift for a lover, perhaps?”
I blinked. “Maybe.”
“Definitely,” Scarlett chimed in.
Reba tilted her head to the side. “And he’s a professional artist or is art just a hobby for him?”
“Very professional.”
Scarlett raised her hands in the air. “Like. . .has had tons of art collections and magazines write about him.”
“Alright.” I shook my head. “She’s got it.”
Reba considered that. “What medium of art?”
“He is known for his sculptures, but he started off painting.”
“Very interesting. I have some ideas that could help.” Reba led us down the aisle. “This store has seen many artists over the years, each with a unique creative journey, but it’s always fun when the artist’s lover comes in.”
I blushed.
“So. . .most artists like very unique items that they would want to buy for themselves but never get because it isn’t practical.” She picked up this oddly shaped paintbrush. “This is one of those items. Handmade by a master craftsman in Italy. It’s been used to create landscapes that take your breath away.”
“Italy?” I asked, intrigued. “What makes an Italian brush so special?”
Reba’s eyes sparkled. “The bristles were crafted with utmost care. They hold the paint in a way that allows for fluid strokes, capturing the very essence of the landscape. It’s almost like magic.”
“Hmmm.”
“But, a brush isn’t romantic.” Reba placed it back on the shelf and guided us away.
Good point.
We moved on to the stationary section which gave off luxury vibes.
Reba gestured to one stack. “These papers were handmade in Japan. Each sheet is a work of art. I’ve seen them used in magnificent watercolor paintings. The way the colors blend on this paper, it’s like a dance of hues.”
“Handmade?” I touched the sheets’ smooth texture. “Does that affect the way the paint settles?”
“Oh, it’s all about the fibers and how they’re treated,” Reba caressed the paper. “They embrace the ink, allowing it to flow, not just sit on the surface. It becomes a part of the paper, not something separate. A true artist can feel the difference.”