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We kept showing each other parts of ourselves we didn’t necessarily want to expose. That was the big reason why we’d become friends, as short as that’d been.
My throat jumped.
“I’d never laugh at you.” And I wouldn’t. “Whatever this is. I wouldn’t laugh.”
His soft chuckle hit the air. Even still, he stayed behind while he lifted his hand from my eyes. I kept them closed until he told me it was okay to open.
“What do you think?” he gruffed, still behind me. “I want your opinion.”
Honestly, I was still focused on his presence behind me. How he smelled so familiar, all heat and solid man. He remained that close, but I did open my eyes, and well, I was surprised.
My eyes adjusted to dim light, low-hanging light fixtures above. On that aged brick hung works of art, paintings.
And so many.
Countless pieces decorated the room, many spotlighted, which was why the actual room’s lights shined so dimly. Too much light would distract from the main pieces, and there were sculptures as well.
Mostly metal, they were displayed about the room and reminded me of pieces I’d seen before.
I cuffed my elbows. “It’s an art gallery,” I said, obvious. He was still behind me, and I faced him. “You’re showing me an art gallery?”
Curious indeed, Ramses with few words. In fact, his hands in his pockets, he rocked on his heels.
As if he was nervous.
Ramses wasn’t a nervous person. At least, never in front of me. He bumped his big shoulders. “What do you think of it? The place and the setup of everything, I mean.”
Well, it was nice, I suppose. I’d been in quite a few art galleries. I’d actually lived in Manhattan for a time with my ex. In fact, most of our marriage.
I wondered why Ramses wanted my opinion on this place now, but since I was curious, I played along. The place was stunning really, very modern and classy.
“It’s lovely,” I said, and he visibly sighed. I almost chuckled, but I’d promised him I wouldn’t laugh. “Why?”
“Well, I bought it,” he stated—he bought it, like that was obvious. He shrugged. “You’re the first to see it.”
I was?
And he’d bought an… art gallery?
I didn’t know why or, well, any of this, but Ramses broke the tension when he laughed. He scratched a finger behind his neck. “But you like it?”
“I do.” I shook my head with a smile. “But I thought you were working for your family.”
“I am. I do.” He put his hands out, stressing the fact. He pocketed them. “I suppose this is a passion project. I hope the first of many.”
I thought he’d expand on this, but before I knew it, he was taking my hands.
“Come on.” He backed up, guiding me in front of him. “I wanna show you the best part.”
The best part turned out to be in the back, a studio of sorts when Ramses flicked on the lights. In fact, it was a studio. Both what appeared to be finished and unfinished pieces were situated across the room. Many he had under tarps, but the ones he didn’t were all done in metal. He had power tools around and the materials used to create the works. Quite a few of them sat in various stages, and I realized how quiet it’d gotten since we came into this room.
“You’re making these.” He wasn’t just making them. He made them. I studied him. “Did you make everything out there…”
“Oh, no.” He chuckled. “I acquired most of the pieces on the main floor. I’m completely amateur, but yes, I made all this stuff in here. I dabble. Art’s my minor. Business, my major.”
This was more than dabbling. This was passion, and just like he’d stated out on the showroom.
I ventured toward one of his pieces, his style abstract. I knew a lot of people who’d buy work such as this. Hell, I’d bought work like this to decorate our brownstone in Manhattan. Of course, the purchases had been frivolous and the first to go in the divorce. I had money like that, so I spent it.
