“Hi.” Her voice is so soft, so smooth, so melodic to my ears, it could be its own fucking instrument.
God, my heart is racing so fast. So fucking fast.
I have got to calm down before I make her run.
Hell, if I were her, and some strange man told me I was his muse even though we’d never met before, I’d probably run too.
“I’ll be in the back if you need anything,” Nye says, but I hardly notice when he quietly extracts himself from the room.
I step toward her and hold out my hand. “I’m Ansel Bray.”
Tentatively, she accepts it with her own.
It feels tiny and delicate and like the easiest comfort I’ve ever experienced in my life.
This is crazy. Fuck, I feel crazy.
“I’m Indigo Davis,” she responds.
“Indigo,” I mouth, and just a hint of a grin curls the corner of her mouth.
“My dad is a fan of the blues. He thought my name was a cheeky take on an ironic tribute.” She shrugs. “But everyone calls me Indy.”
“Nice to meet you, Indy.” Her name rolls off my tongue like it was always meant to be there.
She releases my hand, and I don’t miss the way her shaky fingers scratch at the fabric of her pants in quick, awkward strokes.
Silence stretches between us, and it takes everything inside of me not to let it grow while I feast my eyes on her face. On her eyes. On her lips. On her porcelain skin.
How can this be?
How is she here?
How is she real?
I blink my eyes and clear my throat. “So, you wanted to see me?”
She nods, but when her lips start to move, no words come out.
She has to know. She has to know she looks like the girl in my painting.
I take it upon myself to break the ice. “So, I’m not sure if you’ve noticed, but I’ve been painting someone who looks exactly like you.”
She nods again.
“I have no fucking clue why.” It’s a soft statement, despite the vulgarity, and it’s apparently just what she needs to hear.
Her eyes light up with relief, and a nervous giggle escapes her lips. “God, I’m so glad you said that. I have no clue why either.”
I grin at the small victory.
“I’m sorry if you were busy,” she continues and pauses for a brief moment as she glances around the gallery before meeting my eyes again. “But…I saw the painting, and I just wanted to meet you.”
“I wasn’t busy, and I’m glad you came.”
“Really?”
I nod. “Of course.”
The fact that she’s even questioning my desire for her presence is mind-blowing, but I keep those details to myself. I can tell she’s nervous and scared and guarded. Like a beautiful little hummingbird locked inside a cage.
And that’s the exact opposite of how I want her to feel.
“I was here the other night,” she admits. “For the exhibition. With my sister.”
That explains the coke addict’s text.
“Did you enjoy it?”
“I did,” she says and then giggles awkwardly as she fidgets her fingers together. “And I also didn’t.”
My lips crest up into a grin when she puts a hand over her mouth in surprise.
“Oh God, that sounded bad,” she grumbles, dropping her head fully into her hand before looking up to meet my eyes again. “I mean, I don’t know much about art…at all, really…but your paintings seem pretty great. It was just a little weird for me, you know?”
“I knew what you meant,” I say, and my smile grows. For some reason, I love that she doesn’t seem to know much about me. “I can imagine it’s a little weird having a man you’ve never met before paint a portrait of you.”
“Yeah…uh…it’s definitely not the norm, you know?”
“I know. I didn’t think the imaginary muse inside my mind was real, yet here you are, looking so much like her. Pretty much identical, if I’m being truthful about it. It’s a bit crazy.”
“Yeah,” she whispers. “Crazy is probably a good word for it.”
I chuckle, and I watch the way her eyes open wider, her guard slowly crumbling.
“Maybe we’ve passed each other in the street or seen each other on the subway.” She shrugs. “Or who knows, maybe I have a doppelgänger out there somewhere.”
I furrow my brow. “A doppelgänger?”
“Yeah,” she says with an uncertain little nod. “Someone who looks just like me. People post about their celebrity doppelgänger all the time on social media.”
“I don’t have any social media profiles.”
“Really?” She seems shocked, and the wide-eyed look that goes with it makes me want to laugh.
“Nope,” I respond. “I’m not much for social interaction.”
“Me either,” she agrees, which surprises me given how shocked she was about my lack of an Instagram account.
“An imaginary muse,” she repeats my earlier words, like she’s testing them out on her tongue.
To my soul, I know this isn’t some random coincidence. This beautiful woman standing in front of me, Indy Davis, is her. The girl I’ve been picturing inside my mind over the past year.