Page 11 of His Vow

"You know people who let you into a conservation lab after hours?"

"I'm persuasive."

I turned to face him. He leaned just inside the door, shoulder propped against the frame, watching me with that same rapt focus he'd given Rafael's painting last night. Still, unblinking, granting me space not out of courtesy, but hunger — to drink me in undisturbed.

"You," I said, "are the least persuasive-sounding person I've ever met."

He smirked.

“My partners at Vanguard would agree with you.”

I grinned and turned back to the paintings.

The Baroque piece pulled me in. I leaned close, studying the border where the cleaned half met the dark — the luminous blue giving way to centuries of grime, two versions of the same sky separated by a conservator's careful hand.

"The painting you bought last night," I said, still facing the canvas. "The garden."

"What about it?" His voice was close. He'd moved from the doorway without making a sound.

I turned. He was less than a foot away. I could see the texture of his jaw, the clean line where his hair met his skin.

"It was mine," I said with a shy smile. "I painted it myself."

His expression softened into a gentle smile. "I know."

"You — how?"

"The brushwork was different from everything else in the room." His eyes held mine. "And your knuckles went white on the doorframe when I turned it around."

I bit the inside of my cheek. "Maybe I was surprised."

"You were terrified."

"I don't get terrified."

"Your hands told a different story." He paused. "Why hide it?"

"I wasn't hiding. I just…" I looked at the Baroque canvas, catching the faint blue beneath the varnish. "Nobody sees those. They're just for me."

"Show them."

"It's not that simple."

"It's exactly that simple. You're the one making it complicated."

"I'll think about it," I said.

He nodded once.

I let out a breath I didn't know I'd been holding and moved toward the door. "Come on. I'm starving, and I know a place."

"What kind of place?"

"It’s one you'll hate," I added, a smirk tugging at my lips.

The Dominican spot was three blocks south, tucked between a laundromat and a nail salon. The fluorescent tubes buzzed overhead. The chairs were plastic. A hand-painted menu board hung behind the counter, and a woman with gray-streaked hair tied under a yellow bandana was stirring something in a pot that smelled like garlic and cilantro.

I walked up to the counter. Nolan stood behind me, his tall frame conspicuous in the small space.