To those who “can’t even”: Guess what? You totally can.
To Carl, the dog Monroe met at the airport: You are the goodest boy. We hope you’ve conquered your fear of escalators.
To Love: You are, well…sometimes, you’re a bit of a bitch. Sorry, but it’s true…
Brad Pitt and Jennifer Aniston ring any bells?
How you could ever let them break up still boggles our minds.
And don’t even get us started on Channing Tatum and Jenna Dewan…like, seriously?
What were you thinking?
But, despite all of that, we can’t deny you’re pretty damn amazing.
You do, in fact, make the world go round.
So, thank you for being so prevalent in our lives.
And thank you for being the foundation of this book.
The Girl in the Painting is a full-length stand-alone novel.
At the end, we’ve included an excerpt from The Day I Stopped Falling for Jerks, one of our best-selling romantic comedy and sports romance novels.
The Girl in the Painting concludes at around 90%.
Prior to beginning your reading adventure, please prepare yourself to read a story that is unlike anything you’ve read before.
Prepare to fall in love with love all over again.
And get ready to fall in love with this story.
Fast. Hard. Deep. Insane kind of love.
Happy Reading!
All our love,
Max & Monroe
“Do you think the universe fights for souls to be together? Some things are too strange and strong to be coincidences.”
—Unknown
Blue Madonna—Børns
Dust it Off—The Dø
What Is And What Should Never Be—Led Zeppelin
Tip of My Tongue—The Civil Wars
Comptine d’un autre été: L’après-midi—Yann Tiersen
Four Seasons—Vivaldi
Sail Away—David Gray
Unsteady—X Ambassadors
Real Love—Tom Odell
Brindo—Devendra Banhart
Sweet Love—Ghinzu
Ansel Bray, an artist known around the world for his tragic hiatus from the canvas.
Ansel Bray, a broody, handsome man not known by me, at all.
Long dark hair, blue eyes, and dimpled cheeks. I’ve never met her, but her image is imprinted in my mind. An angel muse who inspires me to paint again.
There is something about him. Something that spurs a need to be as close to him as possible. A need to find out why.
There is something about her. Something that draws me in. Something that urges me to find out what her presence means.
Why does the girl in his painting look so much like me?
Who is this girl, and why can I see her so vividly?
I shouldn’t fall in love with him.
I shouldn’t fall in love at all.
But fate plays her hand.
But fate has other plans.
The lines of my life will blur.
The needs of my heart will change.
What a beautiful mess we’ve made.
Ansel
I watch the way the brush swipes across the canvas, and it’s like my mind is directing my hand without me as my fingers move in soft, fluid strokes.
Slowly and with precision, I add blues and purples and etch grayish hues into the color palette. Instinctively, my hand moves to the right spot, building a new picture that’s locked inside my mind, a visual that’s only released through brushstrokes and paint and silent poetry. It is a reflection of my own mind, the way I think and feel and see the world around me.
This, painting—creating—is my home.
My passion and my life.
I look away from my work and move my eyes around my studio, taking in the order and chaos, the blank canvases, the finished paintings, anything and everything I can swallow up hungrily.
God, it doesn’t get any better than this…
This is living.
But when I move my gaze back to the canvas, the brush disappears from my hands, and the colors of the painting fade away in a pixelated breeze.
A gasping breath escapes my lungs and encourages my heart to follow its lead. It races inside my chest and vibrates its erratic rhythm against my rib cage.
It was just a dream, Ansel.
I blink my eyes open and, instead of the light of day filtering in through my pupils, darkness replaces everything.
Fuck.
Waking up is harsh when your dreams are better than reality.
Sometimes, my dreams are so vivid I find myself forgetting my sight is gone. I’ll open my eyes and expect to see my bedroom, expect to see the sun peeking in through the windows, expect to find crumpled blankets over my body and the paintings on my walls.
And then I remember.
I remember the physical pain and the actual trauma of the accident, but mostly, I remember the moment I woke up to the heightened sounds of a dark abyss. The moment I knew my future would be bleak and empty.
Every single fucking day, I wake up and choke on the grief of it all.