I’ve come to the conclusion that all the stereotypes about small towns are true. Starting with the idea that everyone knows everyone.
Pippa is the perfect example of that. We can’t walk a few steps without someone stopping to talk to her. Whether it’s someone begging for her to finally share her buttercream icing recipe or someone asking how her family is doing, she’s always talking with somebody else about something. Some people ask who I am, some of them don’t. Most of them don’t seem to care who I am; they just want to speak with her.
I don’t know if Pippa realizes it or not, but the people in this town love her. Their faces get brighter, their smiles get wider, and they seem captivated by every word she says to them. I was put off by the idea of coming here when she first told me what we were doing, but now I’m almost grateful she brought me. I’m fascinated by how much everyone seems to love her in this town. I’m really just fascinated by her.
She talks to every single person like she genuinely cares what they’re saying. There was the woman who was telling her that her four-month-old was going through a sleep regression and she felt like she hadn’t slept for days, so Pippa offered to come watch the baby sometime so the mom could sleep. Or the old lady who complained about her printer not working, so Pippa offered to come over and fix it. There are countless different instances of this, and as she speaks with yet another person, I focus on one of the questions that keeps being asked.
In one way or another, she keeps getting asked how her family is doing. But it doesn’t seem like a polite question in passing conversation. They all seem concerned while asking it. Or that the question is taboo. And her answers give me no clues on what they could be talking about.
And I want to know. I wish I knew. I’ve never cared about being an outsider, but for the first time, I just wish I knew what everyone else knows when it comes to her.
“Yay!” Pippa claps her hands together before she pulls me to a booth with black draping and the words “Tommy Does Art” on a banner across the front of the table. “Camden, you have to meet Tommy.”
The guy sitting at the table looks like he hasn’t even graduated high school yet. Or if he has, it wasn’t too long ago. He’s got brown hair that’s buzzed to the scalp, and he watches me with brown eyes almost the same color as his hair. “Did you bring a friend or something today?” the kid asks, his voice confirming my first thought that he may not even be out of high school yet.
“Or something,” Pippa begins, pulling me closer to the table so I stand right next to her. “Tommy, I’d like for you to meet Camden Hunter.”
His chair falls backward and hits the gym floor with a loud thump. He wipes his hands on the front of his paint-stained jeans. “Camden Hunter,” he rushes out, his words jumbling together making my full name sound like one long name. “Like the Camden Hunter?” His tone goes up an octave as he repeatedly wipes his hands on his clothes.
“I don’t know how many Camden Hunters there are, but it is my name.” I hold out my hand to shake his, but he just stares at my waiting hand in awe.
I freeze, not knowing what I’m supposed to do in this situation. Do I stop the handshake? Wait for this kid to get it together and just look awkward while doing it?
Lucky for me, the kid finally puts his hand in mine and shakes it. “I can’t believe I’m meeting Camden Hunter,” he breathes.
“I promise you he’s not that cool,” Pippa pipes up.
Tommy looks at her in disbelief. As if she’d just told him men never walked on the moon or that George Clooney had just retired from acting. “Not that cool?” He looks from Pippa to me. “You’re a legend.” His eyes bounce around the art displayed around him. “And your eyeballs have landed on my art. Holy shit.”
I follow his gaze, looking at the pieces hanging in the booth. “Are these yours?”
“Yes,” he squeaks.
“Can I get closer?” I ask, already taking a step around the table to walk behind it.
“You can do anything you want,” the kid—Tommy—answers, backing away as if I need that much space to get behind the table.
“Tommy graduated two years ago, and he’s been selling his art at shows and conventions and things like that. He even did the mural for me in the shop that leads to the back.”
“Are you in school at all?” I let my eyes roam over his different pieces. They’re vastly different, but you can still see his style shining through each piece. They are all landscapes. There are mountains, beaches, forests. They seem very traditional, but also, he brings a modern twist to each one. They’re very eye-catching. The longer you look at them, the more things you notice. Like how he changes his brushstrokes halfway into painting the beach to make each side look different. Normally such a difference of strokes would make things seem off-balance, but he makes it work.
“He can’t see you shaking your head,” Pippa says from the other side of the table.
“Right,” Tommy states. “No, I’m not in school at all. I’m hoping if I sell enough art that maybe I’ll be able to save enough money to go.”
I circle the back of the booth, inspecting all of the pieces he has on display. He’s got a lot of talent for someone who seems to have no technical training.
“What’s your pricing?” I focus on a landscape of a forest. It’s at night, but it still feels warm and inviting. Like everything is asleep around you, and you get to be at peace for once in the calmness of the night.
“That one is one hundred.”
“Thousand?”
Pippa sputters behind me. Or maybe it’s Tommy because when I look at him, his face is bright red. “No,” he whispers, his voice scratchy. “Just one hundred dollars.”
I frown. “You’re severely undercharging for your art.”
“I am?”
“Definitely. I already have people in mind who would pay thousands upon thousands of dollars for these pieces.”
“What…” The redness from his face is gone. Now he’s white as a ghost. “I’ve never even dreamed about that much money.”
Pulling my wallet from my slacks, I fish out my business card. I hold it between my pointer and middle finger as I hand it to him. “I’m going back to Manhattan tomorrow, but here’s my card. Email me, and we’ll get your art in my gallery. You’ll find out what at least half a mil looks like by the end of the month.”
“Half a what?” the kid asks. His eyes are so wide with shock that he looks like he’s straight out of a cartoon.
“Million,” I finish, confident his pieces will sell. The kid will be in for a real treat when he finds out what people will pay if he does custom work for them. I know ten people off the top of my head who’d want a custom piece done for sentimental reasons.
Pippa looks as shocked as Tommy when I finally look at her. Her mouth hangs open, and I hate that the first thing that pops into my mind is how fun it would be to shove my cock in it. Her tongue is a perfect shade of pink. It’d look hot as fuck licking cum from my shaft.
The thought is so abrupt that I almost trip over my own feet. The only reason I don’t face-plant is because I’m able to reach out and steady myself on the corner of the table. Luckily, Pippa and Tommy seem to be so swept up in the amount people are willing to pay for art that they don’t notice my slip-up.
Straightening my spine, I look around the room to see if anyone else noticed. No one seems to be paying any attention to us. Tucking one hand in my pocket, I slide my other through the crook of Pippa’s elbow.
“Any other undiscovered talent here I should know about, shortcake?”
I stop us, turning around so we’re almost chest to chest. It isn’t lost on me that I could easily drop my hand. She doesn’t seem to be going anywhere, so I don’t need to keep hold of her. My fingers stay in place. The thrum of her pulse beats underneath my fingertips. Or is it mine?
“You know you just changed his life, don’t you?”
“No. That was all you.”
