“This,” I begin, sliding out of the truck and planting my boots on the ground, “is Camden Hunter. He took over the Richardson gallery.” “The guy you called a prick because he bought the space you wanted?” Camden’s eyebrow arches in curiosity as he rounds around the front of the vehicle. I was too busy gawking at my brother’s unnecessary comment to notice Camden even getting out to begin with. “I didn’t want to buy the space,” I lie, suddenly embarrassed. For some reason, I don’t want Camden to know I wanted the space he now owns. I don’t want him to have that to hold against me. Because I’m
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