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I make rounds, enjoying the discussions about art—both mine and others’—more than I pretended I would before coming. It’s still wild that people give a shit about me, that this dream I’ve had since I was young has come true.

More than one of them, I guess.

During a small lull, I look around for Hunter, before finding him with Desmond. Des looks gorgeous as always, his dark hair faded on the sides and with short curls on top, his suit hugging his body the way it only does for professional football players.

Hunter sees me just before I get to them and beams, always happy to see me, and damn, does that make me feel lucky. “If it isn’t the man of the hour.”

“No shit. You’re popular,” Desmond says.

“Yeah, well, I’m more than just a pretty face,” I tease as Hunter wraps an arm around me.

Desmond’s gaze flicks around the room, and just before I ask, he says, “I thought your fucking cornerback was supposed to be here tonight.”

“He texted that he’s not feeling well,” Hunter tells Des, then to me, “He wanted me to tell you he’s sorry he couldn’t make it.”

I could be wrong, but I could swear Desmond’s jaw tics, before he says, “Hope it’s nothing serious.”

Huh. Interesting. What the hell is with them?

“Just a stomach bug,” Hunter says.

Before I can slip away, Isla is tugging me to the front of the room for a speech, which I reluctantly give, ending with, “Thank you again for being here tonight. Thank you to Isla for always putting on an incredible event. And thank you, Hunter. Most of what I want to say to you, I shouldn’tmention here.”

Everyone laughs, and even from the distance, I see his cheeks pinken.

“You’ve always supported me, even when you didn’t realize you did. You always made me strive to be better, to do better. You were always my favorite subject to photograph…even before the first time I saw you through my lens.”

Oohsandawwsecho around the room, and Hunter mouths, “Love you.”

And he does, love me. I believe that. I feel it. And I can’t wait to spend the rest of my life loving him.