Say Yes: A Nostalgic Summer Romance Read online

  Copyright (C) 2021 Kandi Steiner

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without prior written consent of the author except where permitted by law.

  The characters and events depicted in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Published by Kandi Steiner

  Edited by Elaine York/Allusion Publishing

  Cover Photography by Perrywinkle Photography

  Cover Design by Kandi Steiner

  Formatting by Elaine York/ Allusion Publishing

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Epilogue

  A Note from the Author

  On the Rocks - Chapter One

  On the Rocks - Chapter Two

  More from Kandi Steiner

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  “I see now that the purpose of self-progress is not to pursue perfection, but to move closer to the truth of who we really are, to untangle our deepest fears and doubts, and arrive in that tender, blissful place where we are free to be our purest, boundless selves.”

  — Beau Taplin, The Glade of Self

  There were no words for this pain.

  Of course, many had tried to find them, tried to string consonants and vowels together, to form a combination of syllables that could encompass this indescribable state of being.

  Heartbroken seemed to be the one that came closest to the truth, but it still failed to do the job.

  I understood where that word came from. It was that feeling of weight on your chest, the splitting of your rib cage, the way your heart seemed to be tied up in restrictive chains keeping it from fully beating the way it once did before.

  It was that gut-wrenching ache in the very pit of who you are, the one that screams out in pain for the loss of what once was, that claws against the walls of your stomach like if it fights hard enough, it can somehow capture and hold onto what never could truly be.

  It was desperation and despair in equal measure.

  It was a gaping hole never to be filled again.

  It was an untouchable feeling of having the source of all the joy in your life ripped away suddenly and violently, and the horrific realization that you’d never have it again.

  There were no words for this pain.

  There were no words for this torture.

  There were no words for this strange purgatory where I felt dead inside and somehow more alive than ever.

  There were no words.

  So, I wiped my face. I took a deep breath.

  And I attempted to paint it.

  The Art of a Dying Planet

  Three Months Earlier

  Everything felt alive and fragile that summer, like a bomb humming just under the surface of an unsuspecting crowd.

  Our planet was getting warmer, all thanks to us, and we were seeing first-hand the damage we had done. Blizzards wreaked havoc on the northeast, hurricanes rocked the southeast coasts, fires burned and the earth quaked in the west. There were planes crashing and missiles being tested in China, and oil spilling into our oceans and all the while, our eyes were focused on the remarkable Michael Jordan and the Chicago Bulls as they chased their fourth championship.

  We cheered on our Olympians as they prepared for the summer, sang every word to every Spice Girls song, and watched trailers for movies like Twister and Independence Day as if those disasters were a far-off dystopian fantasy, as opposed to the very reality we lived in.

  I felt the buzz of it flowing through me like a current from the very moment my plane touched down in Rome, Italy. I felt it swirl and rush inside me on the train out to Florence, and as I settled in for a summer studying abroad, I swore just one wrong step — or perhaps, one right step — would trigger the explosion.

  My sling-back Mary Janes made a plunk sound each time I took a step on the cobble streets that made up the historic little town of Florence, or Firenze, as the Italians called it. My brushes were wrapped in a leather satchel against my hip, the strap crossing my body, and I held two giant textbooks on Florentine art against my chest.

  It was the summer of 1996, and I was twenty-two years old.

  I left America on a rainy night in May, waving farewell to my parents and the Atlanta airport with excitement bubbling in my belly. I woke groggy halfway around the world to a sunny and warm Italian morning.

  Three months in Florence to study art.

  Three months to hone my craft.

  Three months to make something of myself or surrender to my parents’ wishes for me to use my accounting degree rather than my art one.

  Just the thought of it sent a chill down my spine.

  It was a pleasantly warm morning as I walked the short distance from my dorm room to the cluster of buildings that made up our campus in the middle of Florence. My blonde hair was in its usual state of natural waves, tucked behind both ears, strands of it getting stuck on my yin & yang earrings. My makeup was made up of warm and neutral, lips painted a matte brick red, and lashes painted long with my favorite mascara. The black choker my best friend gave me before I left the States hugged my neck, and I wore my favorite pair of paint-splattered overalls over a simple white spaghetti strap top. A forest green and navy blue plaid, long-sleeve shirt tied around my waist completed the look, along with my dark, round sunglasses.

  One hand held my textbooks against my chest, the other was tucked inside my right pocket, as it usually was.

  I’d always hidden it, ever since I was a child.

  The study abroad program I’d enrolled in was a ninety-day intensive, complete with five days of being in the classroom from nine-to-noon and an internship at the museum from one-to-four. If I wasn’t studying art, I was attempting to make it. And when that failed, I walked the halls of the Uffizi and marveled at those who had left their permanent mark on the world, praying I could do the same.

  The first two weeks had blown by in a blur, mostly consisting of me working on our first real assignment. It was an oil painting, and since I’d worked on mine late into the night last night, I prayed it would be somewhat dry on my easel this morning, ready for the professor’s eyes.

  Professor Beneventi was a stern man in his late fifties, with ink-black hair and weathered, tan skin that rarely ever crinkled at the edges of his eyes, due to his lack of ability to smile. Still, his work was impressive, and he had a lifetime of achievement under his belt that made me feel honored to learn from him.

  The man had a PhD, which was impressive in and of itself, but I was more moved by the dozens of frescoes, paintings, and sculptures he’d been commissioned to create over the years — the first of which he was hired for when he was just thirteen years old. An expert in traditional Renaissance drawing, painting, and sculpting techniques, his work could be seen all over Florence, of course,
but he wasn’t too modest to remind us that he had works displayed in museums and city centers as far away as China and all the way to America.

  He was a brilliant old man.

  And he was also very difficult to impress.

  Our assignment had been to paint our first week in Florence, and I’d sat on the stone wall along the river with the sun on my face and done just that. I let the inspiration flow from the city directly into my heart. It was as strong as the pulse in my neck, that realization that I was here, in the birthplace of the Renaissance, in the city that brought some of the world’s most renowned artists to life.

  I worked on my painting every evening after my internship for a week straight, and I knew without having laid eyes on any of the other students’ work that mine was pristine, an alla prima masterpiece with the bright colors of an Italian sunset, and the perfect brushstroke blends to bring the river and bridge above it to life.

  I couldn’t wait to show Professor Beneventi.

  The classroom was buzzing with conversation when I ducked inside, everyone sitting at their easels and anxiously awaiting the professor. A gentle breeze rolled through the open windows of the room, white curtains flowing in its wake, and that draft was our only relief from the heat that would grow throughout the day. I didn’t realize how dependent I was on air conditioning in Georgia until I came to Florence where an air conditioner was as rare as eggs were for breakfast.

  The pastries I’d grown accustomed to.

  The sweating, I had not.

  I was anxious until the moment I slung my bag off my shoulder next to my barstool and took in the sight of my mostly dried painting that I’d last seen around midnight. The colors were just as bright as I remembered, the brushstrokes impeccable.

  I smiled as I took my seat, confidence filling me like helium.

  I looked around, making sure everyone was occupied with their own work before I removed my right hand from my pocket. The last piece I’d left for this morning was my signature in the lower right-hand corner, and I always signed with my small hand.

  I was born with symbrachydactyly, a rare birth defect where my right hand didn’t fully develop the way my left hand did. I had a fully formed pinky and thumb, but the other three fingers were bubble-like and small, “nubbins,” as my doctors called them.

  I didn’t like that my instinct was to hide my hand, but I disliked looks of pity from strangers even more so.

  Sure, I had two fully formed fingers where most people had five. And sure, it was a little unsightly, a little odd if you weren’t used to it.

  But that hand still helped me do amazing things.

  And I was on a mission to prove that I could do anything I wanted to despite it.

  I could still remember how difficult it had been to take a brush in that hand the first time, how unbalanced and clumsy I’d been with the strokes. Now, I signed my name in tiny script without a single tremble.

  Harley Chambers.

  I smiled at the sight of the white paint against the deep blue of the river, and as I did, a tingle spread down my spine.

  I could sense someone’s eyes on me.

  I glanced up and to my left, but no one was looking at me. A glance to the right confirmed the same. But when I cast my gaze across the small room, I found a pair of dark eyes under thick lashes watching me from behind a canvas I could only see the back of.

  It was a boy, though I supposed calling him a boy was somewhat silly, considering he was easily the oldest in the class. I couldn’t be sure of his exact age, but I knew he was closer to thirty than he was to twenty, and that just one look into his eyes confirmed he’d lived more life than I had.

  I’d seen him last night, coming into the classroom as I was leaving it. He’d sat down at a blank canvas and I remembered shaking my head at the procrastination.

  An entire oil painting in one night?

  Even if he did wet on wet, there was no way the professor wouldn’t be able to spot that it was a last-minute painting.

  A closer look told me he likely hadn’t slept at all, and though I couldn’t remember what he’d been wearing last night, I was almost sure it was the same black Pearl Jam t-shirt he wore now.

  He had dark, hickory brown hair, lush and unruly, and an inch too long by my mother’s standards. A scruffy beard of the same color peppered his jaw and upper lip, scraggly and unkept, and again I could hear my mom’s voice in my head making a comment under her breath that he should trim it.

  I kind of liked it, though.

  I kind of liked the way it made him look older than he was, but how the boyish gleam in his eyes gave him away. I kind of liked that he looked grumpy but curious all at once.

  I kind of liked the way he didn’t look away when I caught him staring, and how one corner of his lips ticked up just a notch when I didn’t look away, either.

  “Okay, class,” a voice boomed from the door, and then Professor Beneventi shut it behind him, waving his hand impatiently with a frown etched deep into his brows. “Per favore, sistemati.”

  Those who weren’t already in their seats found them quickly, a quiet shuffling of feet and books and paper until a complete silence fell over us all. The eyes that had been watching me disappeared from view, hidden behind canvas now, and I shook off the remnants of that gaze as I put my paint brush aside and turned my focus to the professor.

  Professor Beneventi barely sat his own things down before he was pacing the room, his eyes roaming each canvas, and it was easy to tell by his reaction, or lack thereof, what he was thinking. He might frown or shake his head, stare for a long while with a thoughtful pause, or skim so fast you couldn’t be sure he really looked at all.

  And we just sat there as quiet as we could, watching and waiting, hoping like hell he wouldn’t pass over ours as quickly as he had the one before us.

  My throat was thick with a swallow I couldn’t manage by the time he made it to me, and I felt him hovering over my shoulder, though I wasn’t bold enough to turn and watch his face. I focused on breathing, on the inhale and exhale, and waited for him to speak.

  Brilliant, Miss Chambers, I imagined him saying.

  The colors!

  The composition!

  Instead, I heard a long sigh leave his chest, followed by a mumbled, “Prevedibile.”

  I didn’t need to know Italian to know that didn’t translate to brilliant.

  I finally turned to meet his disappointed eyes, and he clicked his tongue, nodding to my piece before he looked down at me. “You have talent, Miss Chambers. Why do you waste it?”

  I didn’t miss the subdued noises around the room, a chorus of soft shifts and exhaled breaths that sounded like a loud ouch to my ears.

  “I’m sorry, Professor, I’m not sure I—”

  “What are you trying to tell me with this piece?” he asked, cutting me off.

  I swallowed. “Well, the assignment was—”

  “I know what the assignment was. But what did you do with it?”

  My neck flamed, embarrassment building in my throat and threatening to form as tears in my eyes. It took everything I had to fight it and hold it down. And whereas every other student had his or her head down focused on their art, the boy across from me was watching me again, something of a challenge in his eyes.

  I didn’t know if it was for me or the professor.

  “I want you to look at what you created,” Professor Beneventi said. His hand gestured to the river, to the sunset I’d worked so hard on, that I’d been so proud of. “Yes, the colors are beautiful. Yes, you have captured light in a dramatic and beautiful way. But when I look at this, I feel nothing.”

  Those words were still stinging like a hot iron had been pressed against my chest as the professor stepped between me and the canvas, bending a little so that his eyes were level with mine.

  “Next time, release this fixation you have with creating something perfect, and try to create something real.”

  He said the words with a little wiggle of his
eyebrows, as if he were saying something like keep your head up, kid! as opposed to the truth, which was that he was denouncing the painting I’d worked all week long on.

  I managed a small smile and nodded, and as soon as he turned and made his way to the next student, my shoulders deflated like a leaky balloon.

  I kept my eyes on the oil brushstrokes on my canvas as the professor continued around the room, staring so long the river and buildings and green hillsides began to fade and blur until they no longer made sense.

  I kept that focused non-focus until Professor Beneventi was standing behind the boy with the dark eyes.

  He paused, crossing his arms over his chest before he propped one hand over his mouth. He rubbed his lips absentmindedly with his fingertips, his eyes roaming the canvas, and where I had been too scared to look when the professor was appraising my work, this boy had positioned his barstool so that he was staring at him straight on.

  There were so many emotions that passed over the professor’s face as he looked at the painting, and after what felt like the longest pause he’d given to any of us, he cleared his throat, blinking incessantly as if he’d just woken from a dream. His eyes found the boys then, but he didn’t say a word. He just gave something short of a smile and nodded.

  The boy nodded back.

  And it was like watching two strangers have an hour-long conversation with just one exchanged glance.

  When the professor walked away, on to the next student, the boy looked directly at me again.

  And this time, that little curl of a smile on his lips was smug as hell.

  I narrowed my eyes and fought against the scoff I wanted to give him, crossing my arms and tearing my gaze from his like I couldn’t care less.

  That was my first interaction with Liam Benson.

  One day, I’d wish it had been my last.

  The growl that escaped my throat when I made it back to my dorm room that night must have been a deep and ugly thing.

  I heaved my bag across the room, leaning against the door I’d just shut and wishing I wasn’t still fuming over my assignment.