Total pages in book: 150
Estimated words: 151430 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 757(@200wpm)___ 606(@250wpm)___ 505(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 151430 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 757(@200wpm)___ 606(@250wpm)___ 505(@300wpm)
Art can work miracles.
Creative beauty brings out the best in everyone, even the folks with the cultural sensitivity of a coconut crab.
It’s the whole reason I studied art and promised it my life.
With the bill paid, he places his hand on the table and balances himself as he stands. He rocks back, but catches himself with a messy laugh.
Odd.
I pop up and follow. “Are you okay, guy?”
He waves a hand. “Yeah, yeah, I’m fine. Lit and loving it. Now let’s go see some finger painting.”
We walk to the art gallery with my tongue caught in my teeth. A trip I usually make in less than fifteen minutes from here takes more than half an hour.
He stumbles along with an awkward gait, falling behind me, and other times staggering on several steps ahead.
This is when I should acknowledge the big, ugly red flag flapping in the wind in front of me.
This is where I should arm myself with excuses and beat it, and about when I should pull my head out of the clouds where everything seems happy and bright and boundless.
Nothing can ruin my new career at Brandt Ideas next week, though, a prestigious and well-paid gig I fought for tooth and nail. Not even this dope.
I’m being too generous, high on my future success.
Besides, what if he has some disability he’s embarrassed for anyone to know about?
“We could get an Uber. It’s only like another five minutes,” I suggest.
He laughs. “Why would we Uber? The weather’s awesome tonight.”
“You don’t seem to be enjoying the walk. Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Never better! Just one too many shots.”
Awesome. But how many did he have? Three? Four? Should he be this drunk?
“Fun fact, I got the party started early.” He laughs again, a little too close to my face. “It’s probably not the whiskey. Gotta be the vodka I had before I left the house.”
Dearest of Lords.
So, he was buzzed before he insisted on stopping at the bar? I don’t want to be seen with this guy at my favorite place in the world. My feet are rapidly getting cold.
“We could do this another time.”
He stops blundering along and blinks at me like I’ve just stabbed him in the chest.
“Aw, no. Don’t tell me you’re tired? We’re gonna celebrate your big promotion.”
Whoa, he almost got it right.
It was almost sweet.
I almost smile.
“Why?” I snap. Then it’s my turn to sputter a laugh. “You told me you have to be buzzed to enjoy it. You don’t have to force anything on my account...”
“You kidding? As long as you’re here, I’m having a grand time,” he whispers with a goofy smile.
There’s a protest lodged in my throat again, but at this point we’re coming up to the long temple-like steps of the museum. He locks his hand around mine and starts up the stairs, dragging me along.
Okay. I guess we are celebrating.
It’s a busy evening. There’s a line flowing almost to the door.
“We’ll go through the members’ line. It’s a lot faster,” I say.
“Whoa, babe. You have a membership to the art museum?” He snickers.
I don’t answer. I take a step toward the “members’ only” line and since his hand is still locked around mine, he comes along.
There’s a tall man in a dark business suit in front of us. From behind, his body is all straight lines and edges. Sculpted muscle tamed by designer fabric. Broad shoulders civilized by wool, but so defined under it they tell the world he’s capable of very uncivil things.
Judging by the crisp way he wears his suit like a second skin, he has class and good looks.
His hair is dark brown like a crafted mocha—not the weak powder stuff, the kind of bitter chocolate ultra-nice cafés melt in coffee.
Something strong and slightly brutal you’d want to drink on a crisp evening like this when your nerves are buzzing and you’re dying to enjoy the finer things in life.
Damn. I should’ve just celebrated alone and tried to awkwardly bump into the handsome stranger.
But I made my choices, and strange men aren’t riding to the rescue on wings of glory.
We wander through some blown glass sculptures and I put a few badly needed strides between myself and King Idiot.
Which I quickly regret when Nameless stumbles backward and almost tips over a huge glass vase that must be seven feet tall on its podium. My hands fly up to my mouth as a gasp slips out.
Oh my God!
Thank everything it’s bolted down.
Yep, I’m going to be banned from my favorite place ever, and it’s all this jackass’ fault.
My heart pounds. I move between him and the sculpture, centering my weight. He stumbles into me instead of precious glass when he goes all tipsy a second time.
I throw my arms out and manage not to fall, struggling to support his bulk.
I don’t know how. It’s a small miracle—and not the kind I was hoping for tonight.