‘Change the World’. He smiled, pleading with her to do the dance they always did, she adored him no matter what, and he came home whenever his gig was up. “It’s kinda cool Clapton’s back on top. I can tape some of his earlier stuff for you if you want. Everyone says he’s as good as Stevie Ray or BB King, but I don’t think so. What do you think?”
His attempt to speak the language he taught her before she could walk wasn’t going to work this time. Melissa gave him another go-to-hell look and put the headphones back on. For the first time in her life, she wanted him to go. Get the hell on the road where he was happiest, where he didn’t have to be a father. Clapton hit the bridge of the song. Daddy mouthed goodbye, and that was the last she saw of him. A car accident. A freak accident, so the police had said. But he was gone and Melissa had hurt so bad, she wanted to die then. Now, she was just a mess of tears and runny mascara. Mitzi was right, love was scary, but nothing compared to loss.
Melissa wasn’t going there; she needed to get back to her element. She swiped at her tears, grabbed her phone from the console, and told Siri to call Jonathan Greer. He picked up on the first ring. Maybe that meant he wasn’t busy, although he was one of the most gorgeous, most revered, fine artists in all of Charleston.
“Melissa Bliss. I hope you’ve reconsidered my offer.”
“To be tortured by you? I don’t think so.”
“If only you could sit still.”
“If only,” she echoed incredously. “Hey, wanna do me a favor?”
“You got me to donate that painting to the Turtle Team fundraiser last year. It sold for three hundred dollars; I think that’s enough of a favor. And a travesty.”
“Hey, it went to a good cause.” The Isle of Palms Turtle Team was vigilant about protecting sea turtles and educating the public. Problem was, since they got on Facebook and with local bestselling author Mary Alice Monroe promoting their cause, attendance at nest inventories had gone from attracting a handful of people to hundreds. This wreaked havoc on the local traffic, not to mention what it probably did for the baby turtles—the ones who couldn’t escape the nest on their own who were gently coaxed out their nest only to see as many as seven hundred spectators.
“I even helped mark nests last week. Very cool thing,” he said.
During nesting season, members of the Turtle Team walked the shoreline of both the IOP and Sullivans Island every morning, marking any nests that were made the previous night.
“But three hundred dollars? That was a five thousand dollar painting, easy. Next time I want a minimum bid slapped on whatever I donate.”
Next time , Melissa smiled; mark him off the list of iffy donors . “I’m calling to offer you thanks in the form of a gorgeous blonde.”
“My mom works part-time at Mitzi’s; I know all about your track record, Melissa Bliss. Jesus, I’m only twenty-four; I’m not interested settling down.”
“Okay, would you be interested in meeting one of the richest women in the country, who is gorgeous, and a patron of the arts?” Melissa was guessing on that part, but wasn’t that what really rich people did with their money?
“Who?”
“Savannah Sinclair.”
“No shit? God, I used to have the biggest crush on her when she was running with Paris Hilton and Nichole Richie.”
“Well, she’s not that girl anymore, but she’s still beautiful.”
“Are you kidding? She’s gorgeous, but she’s almost a recluse.”
“Compared to you, maybe. Anyway, Savannah’s easing back into dating, and I thought you’d be the prefect guy to show her the Charleston art scene, maybe take her to dinner. Don’t worry. I’m not trying to pawn her off on you. You’re a fun guy, and Savannah’s just started to date again. Besides, you’re not right for her.”
“Says who?”
“Says the expert. Just take her out and show her a good time. Show her your work. You never
His attempt to speak the language he taught her before she could walk wasn’t going to work this time. Melissa gave him another go-to-hell look and put the headphones back on. For the first time in her life, she wanted him to go. Get the hell on the road where he was happiest, where he didn’t have to be a father. Clapton hit the bridge of the song. Daddy mouthed goodbye, and that was the last she saw of him. A car accident. A freak accident, so the police had said. But he was gone and Melissa had hurt so bad, she wanted to die then. Now, she was just a mess of tears and runny mascara. Mitzi was right, love was scary, but nothing compared to loss.
Melissa wasn’t going there; she needed to get back to her element. She swiped at her tears, grabbed her phone from the console, and told Siri to call Jonathan Greer. He picked up on the first ring. Maybe that meant he wasn’t busy, although he was one of the most gorgeous, most revered, fine artists in all of Charleston.
“Melissa Bliss. I hope you’ve reconsidered my offer.”
“To be tortured by you? I don’t think so.”
“If only you could sit still.”
“If only,” she echoed incredously. “Hey, wanna do me a favor?”
“You got me to donate that painting to the Turtle Team fundraiser last year. It sold for three hundred dollars; I think that’s enough of a favor. And a travesty.”
“Hey, it went to a good cause.” The Isle of Palms Turtle Team was vigilant about protecting sea turtles and educating the public. Problem was, since they got on Facebook and with local bestselling author Mary Alice Monroe promoting their cause, attendance at nest inventories had gone from attracting a handful of people to hundreds. This wreaked havoc on the local traffic, not to mention what it probably did for the baby turtles—the ones who couldn’t escape the nest on their own who were gently coaxed out their nest only to see as many as seven hundred spectators.
“I even helped mark nests last week. Very cool thing,” he said.
During nesting season, members of the Turtle Team walked the shoreline of both the IOP and Sullivans Island every morning, marking any nests that were made the previous night.
“But three hundred dollars? That was a five thousand dollar painting, easy. Next time I want a minimum bid slapped on whatever I donate.”
Next time , Melissa smiled; mark him off the list of iffy donors . “I’m calling to offer you thanks in the form of a gorgeous blonde.”
“My mom works part-time at Mitzi’s; I know all about your track record, Melissa Bliss. Jesus, I’m only twenty-four; I’m not interested settling down.”
“Okay, would you be interested in meeting one of the richest women in the country, who is gorgeous, and a patron of the arts?” Melissa was guessing on that part, but wasn’t that what really rich people did with their money?
“Who?”
“Savannah Sinclair.”
“No shit? God, I used to have the biggest crush on her when she was running with Paris Hilton and Nichole Richie.”
“Well, she’s not that girl anymore, but she’s still beautiful.”
“Are you kidding? She’s gorgeous, but she’s almost a recluse.”
“Compared to you, maybe. Anyway, Savannah’s easing back into dating, and I thought you’d be the prefect guy to show her the Charleston art scene, maybe take her to dinner. Don’t worry. I’m not trying to pawn her off on you. You’re a fun guy, and Savannah’s just started to date again. Besides, you’re not right for her.”
“Says who?”
“Says the expert. Just take her out and show her a good time. Show her your work. You never
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