Page 43 of Spring Break Fling

“I’d pay money to see it.”

“Where are we going?” she asked, tugging at the hem of her dress.

I fought the urge to reach over and hike it up again. I wanted to see all that sexy expanse of thigh.

“I already told you.”

“You’re seriously taking me to a gallery opening?”

“Yes. You don’t believe me?”

“I just don’t see you as the kind of guy that goes to art galleries,” she said.

“I’m full of surprises.”

“I would say so.”

“So, how many times did you think about not coming?” I asked.

She flashed a coy smile. “What makes you think I did?”

“Because I’m smart like that,” I said.

She sighed. “Initially, I wasn’t going to come.”

“Why did you change your mind?”

She turned to look out the window. “Because I realized that maybe I had you all wrong. Maybe there is more to you than tattoos and motorcycles. And maybe, just maybe, I wanted to find out if I was right.”

“And if you are right?”

She shrugged. “Then I was right.”

We arrived at the gallery, which was probably not what she was expecting. It wasn’t one of those uppity Manhattan galleries. It was a converted warehouse with string lights crisscrossing the exterior.

I ran around to open her door and offered my hand to help her out of the car. Soft music drifted out the doors. The place was buzzing with the kind of energy that came from creative chaos—a mix of suits, bohemians, and everything in between.

Even a few guys like me. The typical artsy crowd with lots of blue hair and various piercings.

“This is not what I expected,” she said as I held the door open for her.

“Good,” I replied, steering her inside with a hand in the small of her back.

She was about to be surprised once again. The gallery was filled with tattoo-inspired art, larger than life pieces that practically pulsed with emotion. There were traditional designs blown up on massive canvases, abstract takes on tribal patterns, and multimedia installations that looked like someone’s heartbreak had been splashed against a wall.

It wasn’t Monet or Picasso or any of that kind of art. I glanced over at her to gauge her reaction.

I had shocked her again.

“This is wild.” She picked up one of the flyers and opened it.

“I told you I’m going to keep you guessing.”

“‘From Skin to Canvas: The Evolution of Ink.’ Interesting.”

Her eyes wandered across the room, taking in the art. Hannah wandered through the space, her heels clicking softly against the concrete floor. I stayed close, watching the way her eyes flitted over each piece, her brows furrowing slightly as she analyzed the stories they told. She tilted her head to one side and then the other.

“What do you think?” I asked, stopping beside her as she stared at a particularly dark piece—a chaotic blend of sharp tribal lines and what looked like fragments of a shattered motorcycle.