Shallow, p.1
Shallow, page 1
SHALLOW
A NOVEL
Randi Cooley Wilson
Contents
Shallow
Prologue
1. Rebel
2. Gunner
3. Rebel
4. Gunner
5. Rebel
6. Gunner
7. Rebel
8. Gunner
9. Rebel
10. Gunner
11. Rebel
12. Gunner
13. Rebel
14. Gunner
15. Rebel
16. Gunner
17. Rebel
18. Gunner
19. Rebel
20. Gunner
21. Rebel
22. Gunner
23. Rebel
24. Gunner
25. Rebel
26. Gunner
27. Rebel
28. Gunner
Epilogue
SNEAK PEEK
LONDON CALLING
IF
IF | A Novel
ALSO BY
STAY CONNECTED
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Copyright ©2023 by Randi Cooley Wilson
All rights reserved. Thank you for purchasing an authorized edition of this book and complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without the author or publisher's written permission.
SECRET GARDEN PRODUCTIONS, INC.
Edited by Wendy Higgins
Cover Design by Simply Defined Art
SHALLOW (A Novel)/Randi Cooley Wilson
Printed in the United States of America
First Edition July 2023
ISBN-13: 9798398081718
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead), establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
For the Rebels,
May love find you in the most unexpected ways
Shallow people leave the deepest wounds.
—Tibor Cehlarik
SHAL·LOW
Adjective | Of Little Depth
Do you remember the first time you fell in love?
The kind where every moment blurs into the next.
Where there is no beginning or end.
All I've known is shallow love.
Until him.
Prologue
REBEL
Twelve Years Ago
Tilting my head, I follow the chaotic brush strokes with my eyes. The deep blue and dark gray colors on the small canvas make the water appear as if it’s cold. My focus slides over the image and then down to the title on the bronze plaque underneath it: Heartache.
The darkness of the seemingly tumultuous water in the painting makes me long for the salty ocean air and the sound of crashing waves. I grew up near the water—it can be cruel at times. I wonder if the artist lost something or someone to the sea’s cruelty. Maybe that’s the reason for the melancholy title. For the quick brush strokes. For the dark chaos marring the small framed white canvas.
Then again, what do I know?
I haven’t the first clue about art or artists.
Why I thought taking a Fine Art seminar, in my senior year of college, in Paris would be romantic is beyond me. I’ve spent an excessive amount of my evening staring at the renowned painting with no better understanding of it than when I first arrived at the gallery. In my personal opinion, it lacks any attempt to draw my attention to a singular focal point. And, since there is no focal point, there is no way for me to decipher the artist’s thematic ideas, which is the whole reason I’m here at the Musee d’Art Moderne de la Ville de Paris.
I check the time on my cell.
It’s late.
My thematic critique paper is due tomorrow—I’m so screwed.
Leaning forward—I bend over the crimson velvet security rope—trying to get a closer look. My stubborn nature wants one final attempt at finding the painting’s theme.
“Another millimeter and you’ll set off the alarms,” a deep, velvety voice says.
Startled by the voice’s unexpected presence, I stand taller and slowly look over at the guy who is now standing next to me. He’s ignoring me, his eyes fixated on the painting.
Not knowing what to say and feeling a little uncomfortable, I silently stare at the light smattering of hair on his strong jawline, which is clenched tightly as if I’m the one who interrupted him and not the other way around.
Under the scruff, his skin is tan—golden, which makes his facial hair barely noticeable. If it weren’t for the display lights bouncing off the museum's white walls or our proximity, I probably wouldn’t have even noticed it.
Broad shoulders lay hidden under a dark-colored pea coat. Faded black jeans and black boots finish his casual look. A piece of long blond hair artfully falls over his forehead—styled that way. His hair is longer on top and shorter on the bottom. Sexy, but messy.
If I had to guess, I’d say the tall stranger is a few years older than me—maybe twenty-two or twenty-three. It’s hard to tell from my position. One thing is for sure; he looks like an angel—a flawless, golden one that fell from heaven and became dark and tortured.
He runs a free hand through the hair hanging loosely over his forehead, and his stormy gray eyes slide off the painting, locking onto mine. I try not to wilt under his gaze before he snaps it back to the canvas, immersing himself deeply into it. Confused with this strange encounter we’re having, I pinch my brows and watch him with an odd fascination as he studies the image with appreciation.
It’s obvious he’s one of those people who enjoy art. He takes it in as if the painting’s melody hypnotizes him. I don’t know very much about impressionism or this watercolor, but I can tell he does. It’s in his blood, like breathing. I frown—never having felt a connection that way about something. Feeling as if I’m intruding, I turn my attention back to the painting to give him a private moment. One where I’m not gawking at him.
“Why are you scrutinizing this piece of art if it doesn’t appeal to you?” he asks.
A shiver runs over me because I’m inexplicably drawn to his voice. It has a hint of velvet sensuality in a strangely dark and rugged way. A bit unsettled at my attraction to him, I close my eyes attempting to get a grip on myself. How did he know I didn’t like it?
“I’m . . . trying to understand its meaning. The artist’s theme,” I mutter.
“What is it you see when you look at it?” he asks, his lips brush against my ear.
Surprised by his sudden closeness, I take in a sharp breath and my eyes slowly flutter open. When my gaze meets his, I blurt out the first thing I think of. “Blue and gray.”
A small smile, carrying a tiny bit of intrigue, graces his lips. At the sight, my stomach does a small flip, and I tear my eyes away from him before I ultimately make more of a fool out of myself. He chuckles at me like he knows he made me feel crazy for a moment.
“Impressive assessment.” His voice redirects my attention back to him.
“What is it you see?” I challenge.
“That in the darkness of chaos, we find the true nature of humanity,” he replies.
I search his face taken aback at the deep meaning he seems to have found in what I view as a simple water-colored painting of the ocean. He gives me an intensely dark look.
‘’Try again,” his voice is low and seductive.
I feel my cheeks flush as I try to find the words. The truth is, I see something in his eyes that I can't quite explain. It's a mix of danger and desire that sets my heart racing.
“I see…I see the power of the ocean,” I stutter. “The way it ebbs and flows, powerful yet unpredictable.”
He nods, his eyes never leaving mine. “Yes, but there's more to it than that. There's a sense of freedom in the chaos, a sense of release that we can't find in the calmness.”
A shiver runs down my spine at his words, and I realize that he's not just talking about the painting anymore. Even though we’re strangers, there's something between us, something electric and dangerous. It’s anything but calm, it’s intense and messy.
We're standing so close that I can feel the heat of his body against mine.
“Actually, I’m trying to find the focal point,” I whisper.
“Why?”
“For an art assignment.” My words barely make it past my lips before he steps closer, his tall frame towering over me.
“The focal point isn't just whatever the eye chooses to see,” he says, his tone low and hypnotic. “On the contrary.” He gestures to a few strokes embedded deep within the artwork. “In this painting, the artist is manipulating what you see with linear paths.”
I catch a hint of an accent lining his voice. It's not French. Australian, maybe?
“So, you're saying the illusion of depth is manipulating me—my feelings towards this piece?” I lean toward him, caught under the spell of our momentary connection.
“That is what art does. It makes you feel.” He pauses. “On its terms, not yours.”
At the intensity of his statement, I lick my lips. My whole-body trembles, it’s like my heart is trying to break free from my chest. Something about his words have me feeling oddly unsteady. My pulse quickens as the spicy scent of his cologne wraps around us.
I swallow, trying to quench the sudden dryness in the back of my throat. “What if I’ve never felt the way it wants me to?” I ask, staring at the painting. “I’m not sure I’ve ever loved something, or someone deeply enough to feel this level of heartache,” I admit.
My confession hangs in the air like a distant lullaby. A strange quiet tension grows between us with each passing second. In the silence of the museum, my heartbeat echoes in my ears. An odd sort of internal battle becomes evident in his stillness. It’s unnerving.
Without warning, he reaches out and gently clasps my trembling hand, a single touch that awakens something deep within me, a secret connection that exists only between us.
He raises my hand to his lips with a deliberate slowness, and time seems to come to a stop. My senses are heightened, acutely attuned to every touch and moment during this unexpected encounter. Spellbound, I watch as he gently presses his lips to my heated skin. The feather-light touch imprints onto my soul in a way that I can’t explain. Our eyes remain locked, refusing to release their hold. It’s as if we’re both afraid to let go of this moment.
The world around us fades into nonexistence. In the peaceful silence of the gallery, I find myself breathless, suspended between reality and the dream of him. Time becomes a mere illusion. In this instant, all that matters is this unspoken language passing between us.
Every fiber of my being yearns for more, yet for some reason I know the fragility of this moment will be short-lived. The air crackles, heavy with unspoken promises, as we stand on the precipice of something which is unexplainably forbidden and irresistible.
After a long moment, he reluctantly releases my hand. Tucked in the shadows hidden behind his eyes are love and desperation. Longing and guilt. His emotions are so torn that all I feel seeping off him is pure heartache. He’s broken. Even without knowing him, I know I am done for in his presence. If I get too close, let him in, this stranger will tear my heart into oblivion. I’d never recover. Not ever. The scars he’d leave would be deep.
“Do you feel it now?” he rasps.
I nod in response, not trusting my own voice. I keep my attention on his stormy eyes as if they’re an anchor. They’re precise and calculated as they study me. With one look, it feels as though he’s woken me up from twenty years of slumber. The stranger lets his gaze linger on my face before slowly moving it down, looking me over with appreciation.
When our eyes meet again, he doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t need to. The look on his face tells me everything. Inhaling, I wait for his next move, feeling out of sorts. Never taking his eyes away from mine, he slowly steps back, placing much-needed space between us. As he does, cool air settles where he was just standing, causing goosebumps to rise again on my bare arms. His eyes fall onto my skin, and he stares at my reaction to him.
The lights in the museum dim, signaling we have only a few moments before it closes.
“You’re very beautiful,” he mutters under his breath.
Something warms inside of me. I’ve always thought my blue eyes and light brown wavy long hair made me plain. Ordinary. The way he’s looking at me says different.
“Beauty can be an illusion of perspective,” I counter.
His expression hardens. “Perspective is a basic art concept of focus. Not beauty,” he states matter-of-factly. “As an art major, you should know that better than anyone.”
“Art has nothing to do with my major.”
“Which is?”
“English. Writing.”
“Isn’t writing considered a form of art?” he pushes back.
“To some, maybe,” I breathe out.
“But not to you?”
Inhaling through my nose, I shrug. “I don’t know yet.”
“You go to school nearby?”
“New York University.”
“NYU, huh?” his lips twitch. “A museum in Paris seems far to travel for a paper.”
“I’m studying here this semester.”
He contemplates my answers. “Art has become a Parisian love then?”
“Bread and wine certainly have,” I joke and release an awkward laugh.
When he doesn’t respond, I release a long, drawn-out breath in an attempt to pull myself out of this intense, weird space we seem to be in. Whatever this is that’s happening between him and me, it feels unsettling, and at the same time, somehow life changing.
I’ve never been this close to a man as enigmatic as he is. He’s mysterious, and mesmerizing. He’s the kind of guy who makes you forget how to breathe. The type you read about in a book, or see come to life in a movie, but not in real life. Shifting on my feet, I look down and then back up into his stark gray eyes. They darken as they take me in, and it takes every ounce of restraint inside of me not to step closer and take his face in my hands to kiss and soothe away whatever is haunting him. I clear my throat.
“Art is a required class for graduation,” I explain.
He inhales and nods his understanding, and my nerves jump all over the place.
“Are you a student?” I manage.
“No.”
“An artist?” I prod.
“No.”
We hold one another’s gaze, and nothing but stillness exists around us. The museum is quiet and empty. Every rhythmic breath that falls between us feels heightened and unusually meaningful. Being still in the dead of silence with him is strangely comforting.
The lights dim again, signaling our time together is ending.
“The gallery is closing soon,” he states.
“It would seem so.” I swallow, fearing that I’ll never see him again.
I don’t want to lose whatever this moment is between us.
“Before it does, would you help me with something?”
“With what?”
With a wicked gleam, he motions around the exhibition hall. “Walk around the room and point out your favorite piece of art. Don’t overthink it. Just pick what speaks to you.”
I tilt my head toward the watercolor we’ve been standing in front of. “I think it’s painfully obvious that I know nothing about art. Are you sure you want my opinion?”
He steps closer and his deep voice turns smooth. “You don’t have to know everything about something to appreciate its beauty. For instance, we don’t know one another.”
We stare at one another for a moment before I feel the heat creep up the back of my neck. Releasing his amazing eyes, I look around the small room. Briefly taking in each of the ten paintings that are in it. After a moment, I point to the piece of art we’ve been admiring together. Looking at it, I study the stormy blue and gray colors. They remind me of the stranger’s eyes, which I can feel are on me, watching me with a deep intensity.
“This one,” I rasp, giving him a quick glance.
He gifts me an amused, knowing smirk. “Good choice.”
I smile shyly and turn back to the painting. “Why is that?”
He doesn’t reply.
When I turn to look at him again, he’s gone.
Confused, I look around the room, but he’s nowhere to be seen.
A deep sense of loss and sadness crawls over me.
Feeling a little bit of heartache, I give the painting one last longing look.
Later that night, that painting vanished from the museum.
Stolen.
Like something inside of me.
Chapter 1
Rebel
Present Day
“He said he was allergic to cats. That’s why he broke up with me.” I drop my head back onto the back of the oversized leather couch and sigh heavily. “I don’t even own a cat.”
