Page 2 of Forbidden Bliss
After hours of driving through endless desert landscapes and winding mountain roads, a sight of a weathered gas station sign near Blushing Creek stirs my pulse.
The gas station sits on a deserted highway, its old and faded sign swinging slightly in the wind. The pumps are rusty, and the building itself looks like it needs an urgent update.
I park the car and get out. As I swing open the glass door, the smell of old motor oil and stale coffee hits my nose.
But as soon as I lay eyes on the paintings lining the walls, I freeze. The paintings have the same vibrant colors and dark, brooding tones as the art on my walls at home. These are the works of art that have captivated me for years.
My keen eyes continue to scan the rows of touristy prints displayed at the counter, when suddenly I spot it.
There, among the images of aspen groves and alpine lakes, with a pregnant woman viewing it all, is a piece I know all too well—the signature style I’ve been chasing. My eyes scan over the piece, taking in every detail and stroke of paint.
I thrust the print towards the attendant, my movements frenzied and impatient. “Do you know who did this?”
Before the lanky, older man can respond, a little girl with amber eyes appears at my side.
Her face is round and cherubic, with a sprinkling of freckles over her cheeks. She wears a faded blue dress that frays at the edges, and dusty white sandals.
The girl’s curious eyes meet mine, mirroring my intense gaze. Her small finger points at the print. “That’s Mama’s.”
Her voice echoes in my brain.
Mama’s.
Is she the daughter of the artist I’ve pursued for years?
Before I fully process this revelation, a woman’s voice rings out from another aisle. “Lana! What did I tell you about speaking to strangers?”
The girl looks down. “Sorry, Mama.”
My eyes snap up to the woman rushing over to her daughter and I halt, my brain scrambling.
The faint scent of her flowery, vanilla perfume fills my nostrils and triggers memories that flood my mind.
It’s Willow.MyWillow.
After so many years, here she stands before me once again. Her sun-kissed hair cascades over her shoulders in waves while her blue eyes penetrate my soul, just as they did the first day I ever saw her.
“Willow?”
Her jaw drops before she freezes at the front counter. “Tristan.”
My mind reels. How is this possible? Willow is here, and the little girl called her ‘Mama.’ Strangely, the child’s nose and amber eyes resemble my own.
Oh my god. Is she …
Willow glances between the little girl and me while a crease forms between her eyebrows. She moves to usher the child away. “We have to leave, sweetheart.”
Panic seizes me. I won’t lose Willow again. Not when I’ve just found her. “No, wait.”
She reaches for the little girl’s hand and continues walking.
I stalk after them, my pulse racing. “Willow.”
She doesn’t turn and acknowledge me. She simply loads Lana into the back of a black Range Rover and gets into the passenger’s seat.
I glimpse at the driver’s shadowy silhouette as the sleek SUV backs out of its parking spot and pulls on to the main road.
Adrenaline pumps through my veins. Who the hell is that guy and why is he driving her around?