In her new position next to the windows, unforgiving sunlight bathed her profile, and he had it. He finally had it. She didn’t just remind him of a bird, she reminded him of—
“A Picasso!” He stabbed a finger in her direction. “You look like a portrait by Picasso!”
He sat back in his chair, crossing an ankle over his knee, entirely triumphant.
“Thank you so much.” There was a definite sarcastic edge to her words, a sharpness she usually lacked.
Now he was frowning too.
Picasso was one of his favorite artists. Back home, several coffee table books of Picasso’s works sat displayed on the library shelves, and Alex flipped through their pages often.
He’d loved Picasso for … decades now. Thirty years.
Without his father in the picture, his mom hadn’t had much money when Alex was growing up. During long, sticky summers in Florida, when she’d managed to bank enough vacation time at one of her retail jobs and saved a few precious dollars, they hadn’t flown anywhere or taken cruises. Instead, they’d gone on road trips up and down the coast.
Fort Lauderdale. St. Augustine. And one memorable time, Miami.
They’d stayed in a cheap motel on the outskirts of the area to save money, but ventured into the heart of the vibrant city itself during the still, humid mornings, before the inevitable storm clouds rolled in every afternoon.
In an art museum there, they’d chanced upon a special exhibit. One of Picasso’s portraits, on loan for a month. At the time, he’d been seven or eight, maybe. Not yet medicated, so he tore through that museum like one of the region’s famous, terrifying hurricanes, randomly checking off an item or two on the children’s scavenger hunt list he’d been given at the entrance, but mostly just wreaking havoc and screeching.
Until he’d seen the Picasso and stopped dead.
That portrait—it didn’t look like any he’d ever seen before. It had mottled colors. Mismatched features. Jutting angles and deliberate, defiant asymmetry.
The woman in that portrait wasn’t beautiful. But beauty wasn’t the point.
He’d hyperfocused on that painting. When his mom tried to persuade him to move on, he’d whined until she gave up and let him stare at it a little longer.
Lauren’s face drew his attention the same way.
But in the mid-morning sunlight, the bags under her eyes were more evident, the lines bracketing her mouth and furrowing her forehead more distinct.
She looked tired and stressed. From lingering jet lag and the prospect of more travel to come? The strain of watching over him?
“I’m getting some food,” she said abruptly, and jolted up from her chair.
Before he could follow her, a man in a suit appeared and asked for an autograph. As Alex made the usual casual conversation—yes, he was that actor; thank you so much for your kind words; no, he wasn’t able to reveal anything about the last season—he kept track of Lauren in his peripheral vision.
She’d piled cheese and grapes and some sort of potato dish on her plate, and it all looked much better than the apple he’d grabbed on the way to their seats. So as soon as he finished with the fan, he joined her in front of the display of small sandwiches and omelettes, where she’d been standing for at least a couple of minutes.
Her vague gaze didn’t waver from the serrano ham and Manchego offering. She didn’t pay him a lick of attention.
Finally, he reached past her and selected a sandwich with tongs, placing it on his small, white plate. Then, with a shrug, he grabbed a second one too—because dried ham and cheese and aioli, yum—and turned to her.
“Are you attempting to obtain your sandwich via telekinesis?” He waved a hand in front of her eyes. “Or simply asleep on your feet?”
She started. “Oh. Sorry. Just thinking.”
With a quiet sigh, she claimed the tongs from him and got her own sandwich.
The two of them hadn’t really stood side by side for any significant amount of time before. They were usually either sitting or in motion or at a distance from one another.
Holy fuck, she was even shorter up close and unmoving.
“Hey, Lauren.” He watched as she transferred a small chorizo omelette to her plate. “When we stand next to each other, we look like we’re illustrating a nursery rhyme or fairy tale.”
She slammed her plate down on the counter with a distinctcrack,and he jumped a little.
