HE ANXIOUSLY PACED the gallery as several pairs of scrutinizing eyes looked over his work, assessing every minute detail. Buyers knew what they wanted to purchase when they walked through the door, and if they didn’t see some semblance of it in a piece, they quickly moved on. His work was no exception to the rule, and he felt his temper rise each time someone turned their nose up at his art. One bitch had commented to her escort that he hadn’t “used enough color,” while another said they “didn’t make sense.” If he had the time, he’d follow those cows out to their cars later and teach them a thing or two. Instead, though, he chose to develop thicker skin.

A pretty brunette stared at his portrait of the curator. “I love this piece,” she exclaimed. “I can feel how sad the subject is. It’s so real.” She was talking to the middle-aged woman next to her, but he was the one who bothered to reply.

“Thank you. I appreciate the compliment,” he gushed, causing her to spin around.

“Oh my goodness! Are you the artist?” she inquired with a big smile.

“Yes, I’m Sean Peirick. Thank you for admiring my work.” He reached out and shook her hand.

“I was just thinking about how real it feels. How do you capture so much emotion?” Her curiosity was endearing.

“I study people and their expressions, habits, and what have you,” he explained. “It helps me to capture the human psyche.”

She looked back up at the painting. “Well, you’re doing a good job of it.” Her eyes fell to the price tag, which read one-hundred-fifty dollars. “I want it for my collection. Will you sign the back?”

He nodded with a large grin. “I’d be honored to.”

She waved over one of the museum employees to take it down for her. “I want this one,” she announced and pointed to the painting.

“You have an excellent eye for art, ma’am,” the employee mumbled and handed her the piece. “You can pay over there.” He pointed toward the exit where staff members were taking payments and security was standing guard.

He knew the compliment about her eye for art was said at every sale because he’d already heard it numerous times regarding other artists. However, in this case, it was true. He accepted the piece from her and scrawled his autograph on the back with the pen she handed him.

She looked at it with a smile and exuberantly told him, “Thank you! This is so great, and I have the perfect spot for it in my living room.”

“You’re most welcome. Please check out my other pieces while you’re here,” he replied and pointed to his other works.

“I certainly will,” she chirped and wandered off to examine them just as another group of people came through the door. Things were looking up for him.

By the end of the art show, he’d sold four of his seven pieces and made five hundred-fifty dollars. He’d hoped, of course, to sell them all, but he was pleased nonetheless. He left the remaining three pieces at the museum for consideration. Just as he was preparing to leave, Randy Michaels stopped him.

“Mr. Peirick, you’ve had a wonderful first show. I hope you aren’t disheartened that everything didn’t sell,” the man said.

“I’m not. I’m rather pleased with how it turned out, and I hope you’ll find a permanent home for the three remaining pieces,” he replied.

Mr. Michaels shifted his weight from one leg to the other. “I’m not the only one who decides, so I can’t guarantee anything. I’m rooting for you, though.”

He shook the man’s hand. “I’m glad. I’ll be on my way then, and I look forward to hearing from you.” He needed to get out of there. He had hunting to do.