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“Not all of them. Just a couple.” I glance back at the building, and a wave of inspiration washes over me. This is what I need to do. Follow my passion.
“Well, I love your passion for design.”
My head spins in her direction. Had I said that out loud?
She continues on, oblivious to my confusion. “I feel the same when I’m talking about my favorite artist, Kjarval.” Freya reaches out to rest her hand on my bare arm, and a zap of electricity buzzes through me at the point our skin touches. Did she feel it too?
I’m sure she did when she pulls her hand back quickly and moves a few steps away, then from a seemingly safe distance, she turns back but struggles to hold my gaze.
I manage to hold in the smile threatening to escape before casually saying, “I’ve heard of him, but I don’t know much about his work.”
She brushes a golden curtain of hair back from her face, something I ache to do. I try not to imagine how soft it would feel wrapped around my fist like a silken scarf.
“I guess it’s my turn to educate you, because there’s another building you need to see. Kjarvalsstadir is our famous art museum, named after Kjarval, and it has some of his works. It’s not far.” Her voice rises hopefully, but she still isn’t looking at me.
I take a couple steps closer to her. “I do know about the Kjarvalsstadir Art Museum, and I’d really like to see it. But are you sure your mother can spare you?”
Her breathing seems to quicken the closer I get. “Yes, yes, it’s fine. She told me this morning she didn’t want to see me until tomorrow. My father’s visiting with her today.”
My brow draws down, earning me one of her precious laughs. But this time, it’s a little shaky.
“What?”
“I just hadn’t heard you mention your father. Sorry, I assumed it was just your mother and you.”
“I do have a father, and I guess you would say we’re close. It’s just that he doesn’t live in Iceland, and I don’t get to see him often. I’m meeting him for lunch today, but we’ve got time to go to Kjarvalsstadir before that.”
“I’m glad you have a good relationship with your father, even from a distance. How old were you when he moved away?”
“He hasn’t lived in Iceland since before I was born.” She shrugs. “It’s a long story.”
“I’d like to hear that sometime,” I say. What I don’t tell her is that I want to know a lot more about her. Each little glimpse she chooses to share is another piece to be fitted into the intriguing puzzle of this woman.
I wonder what the final picture looks like.
“Maybe we can swap long stories. I think you owe me one about why you design ordinary houses instead of buildings you can be passionate about.” She steps away again, even though there’s still a couple of feet between us. “It’s not far from here to Kjarvalsstadir. Are you ready to go?”
Nothing seems far in this interesting city.
I couldn’t recall one thing about the art exhibition we wandered around, even though we spent the last hour viewing the paintings. Most of that time I wasn’t looking at the art; instead, I was captivated by Freya and her reaction to each of the paintings. I couldn’t say if they were oils or acrylic. I couldn’t describe the brushstrokes or the use of color like I would normally be able to do. But I can remember the kaleidoscope of expressions that slipped across her features like a slow-motion slideshow.
Surprise, passion, shock, awe, and love. Every emotion shown in a slight tilt of her head, a pinch of her brow, a slow blink of curled lashes, a faint gasp, or a subtle smile that teases up the corners of her mouth. But none of those are as beautiful as the one now. She has her lush bottom lip trapped between her teeth. Her slender arms wrapped around her body, pushing her breasts higher and out in her loose black T-shirt. One leg is crossed behind the other, her back foot arched so only her toes connect with the tiled floor.
She looks vulnerable, stripped bare, and a lot younger than the twenty-six years that I now know her to be. All of my protective instincts scream to take her in my arms and keep her safe. But from what?
I ease in behind her, not touching but also not leaving more than an inch between our bodies, then lean down close to her ear and whisper, “Tell me about this painting.”
A soft sound leaves her lips. It’s somewhere between a whimper and a gasp. And she leans back into me, closing the gap. Instinctively, my hands move to rest on her hips.
“It’s titled Loss. The dark, somber tone, the heavy brush strokes, and the coarse, bumpy texture are so raw and powerful that I can almost feel the artist’s painful journey through loss. It hurts to look at it.” She tilts her head up to face me, and her eyes shimmer with unshed tears. “Icelandic paintings are traditionally light and colorful landscapes. But this work is pure emotion.”
I nod, trailing a finger over her cheek and down the contours of the bones beneath her soft skin until I reach her jawline. “Beautiful,” I murmur, more to myself than her.
I feel like I’ve learned more about Freya by watching her in this last hour than I have done talking to her. This is where she doesn’t hide. She’s guarded when she speaks, choosing words carefully, but here, she’s willing to show me her emotions as she becomes immersed in the stories of art. She appears to absorb the paintings into her soul.
What’s she like when she’s creating her own artwork? Now, that would be something to see.
I like how Freya and I have a similar interest in art and design. The rarity of finding someone who is as passionate and informed about design as me still has me doing a double take when another interesting fact about an Icelandic artist spills from her lips.
