The Art of Falling: The past he never meant to share

Some people wear their past like armor—unspoken, but always there beneath the surface. Others learn to hide it so well, no one thinks to look twice.

In Mercury Falling, a simple moment becomes something far more revealing. What starts as a conversation about paintings turns unexpectedly personal, peeling back layers Kerry hadn’t intended to share—a glimpse into a past marked by loneliness and survival. For her, it’s a growing awareness that the man in front of her is far more complex—and far more compelling—than she realized.

And when curiosity turns to connection, and connection sparks something deeper, the lines between admiration and desire begin to blur.

Read on for a scene where art imitates life… and two guarded hearts edge dangerously close to something real.

“What about the rough-looking man with the tired eyes?” Lucy said.

Kerry knew immediately which painting she was referring to. “John Singer Sargent. The Tramp.”

She studied him. “The look in his eyes reminds me of you.”

The words hit him square in the chest, and he barely managed to keep his jaw from dropping. There was no way she could know how deeply that painting had unsettled him the first time he’d seen it—how familiar the loneliness had felt.

“It reminds me of the kids I grew up with,” he said before he could stop himself.

Shit, am I really going there?

Apparently he was, because he heard himself say, “I grew up in a boys’ home. A lot of the kids had that look.”

Including me.

He knew her childhood had been safe and ordinary. She had no concept of what childhood in an orphanage was like—and he’d rather keep it that way.

He gave himself a mental shake and went on before she could comment. “Then there’s Toulouse-Lautrec,” he said. “He painted more… suggestive stuff.”

“Mmm.” She leaned toward him, close enough that his breath stalled. For one insane moment, he thought she was going to kiss him.

Instead, she traced the edge of his tattoo with one finger.

Heat sparked where she touched him, racing up his arm.

“More art,” she murmured.

“What?”

“You,” she said. “Your body. It’s like art.”

Desire shifted low and fast, and he sucked in a breath.

Uh-oh.

He liked this woman.

Too much.

They were wrong for each other. He knew that. But knowing didn’t change the way his pulse jumped when she lifted her head, her hand sliding over his shoulder, her gaze locking onto his.

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