Total pages in book: 31
Estimated words: 29394 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 147(@200wpm)___ 118(@250wpm)___ 98(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 29394 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 147(@200wpm)___ 118(@250wpm)___ 98(@300wpm)
I stand behind her and almost put my hands on her waist. The thought of pulling her to me, keeping her close while she tells me the secrets of this canvas–it’s like a drumbeat in my head. I push it down and simply step closer to her, so close I catch the scent of her hair and the slightest hint of vanilla and maybe orange. “What do you like about it?”
She cocks her head to the side. “The depth, I guess.” She lifts her hand and waggles her fingers like a wave. “It ebbs and flows. It’s darkness punctuated by the tiniest bit of light, but the light is what sets the piece apart. You see the way the different shades of gray and black all seem to be drawn to and somehow also drawn from the light at the top?” She traces through the air as if painting the canvas herself. “Here and here?”
I follow her fingers, trying to see what she sees. “I’m not–”
She spins, her gaze upturned to mine. So close, I could pull her to me, I could touch her, taste her–and fuck, I want to. “Let your eyes lose focus.”
Lose focus? I don’t think that’s something I’m capable of. “Focus is one of my main character traits.”
She smiles, her full lips parting the slightest bit. “Don’t worry. I’ll protect you.”
I snort a laugh. “You think I’m afraid?”
“Art is dangerous. Always has been.” She shrugs. “And maybe you aren’t afraid, exactly, but I think you aren’t the sort of man who ever lets go. Like my father. Control is in your nature, and you don’t know who you are without it.”
Fuck. She sees me, really sees me, and I don’t know how. I’ve given her nothing, nothing major about me or my life, but she seems to have pierced me straight through like an arrow.
Slowly, she presses her palm to my chest. “Your heart is racing.”
“Maybe you were right. Maybe I’m afraid.” I lean into her touch.
Her eyebrow arches slightly. “Maybe. But like I said, I’m here to keep you safe. Now look at the painting and soften your gaze. Let it get fuzzy.” She steps to the side, taking the warmth of her palm away from me. I want to grab her wrist and bring her back, but I don’t.
She takes my elbow. “Just look.”
I exhale and close my eyes, then open them and stare at a point in the center of the painting. I stop looking at it, stop focusing on anything at all. My vision goes blurry, and I finally get an inkling of what she was talking about. The iridescent patch at the top seems to light the darkness in rays, as if it’s the sun piercing through the shadows but also pulling the shadows into its brightness. It’s just as she said.
“You see it, don’t you?” Her voice is soft, a reverent whisper.
I look at her, my focus regained. “I do.”
Her smile is brilliant, warm and enticing. “See? You understand more than you think.”
“If I had you with me at every gallery, I’d never be confused again.”
She laughs and looks at the toilet. “I can’t promise that. Some things just don’t make sense.”
I take her hand as easy as if I’ve done it a thousand times. She squeezes my fingers, her lips still turned up in a smile.
“Ready for the grand finale?” I lead her toward the door at the back of the gallery and into the store room.
She gasps and darts forward, pulling me with her to the Klimt that’s illuminated and shining in the relative darkness. “It’s so …” She pulls me to a stop in front of it and simply stares. The silence stretches, and I watch her. Her gaze moves all around the canvas, taking in every detail, every stroke of the brush. I take in the slight upturn at the end of her nose, the light sprinkling of freckles along her nose and cheeks gifted to her by a summer sun, the way her hair is slightly wavy as it falls past her shoulders, and the curve of her neck as it slides beneath her shirt and into the full swell of her breasts. I drink her in the same way she does a work of art, and I find myself needing to know her secrets, her meanings hidden in the way she smiles and the tone of her voice.
I realize Cadence is the artwork I want to explore, to lose myself in, to understand down to her very marrow.
She’s right–art is dangerous.
8
CADENCE
I’m on cloud nine the entire ride back to my place. I’ve never felt that way after a date. Not that I’ve had many of them, but still. I mean, this isn’t really a date, but it kinda sorta is. Isn’t it? Whatever it is, it’s been magical.