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My eyes search the paper, absorbing all the passion and love the artist poured into his work. I can almost hear the water flowing down the Ain, feel the stillness of the forest, and the patience of the fisherman.
“I just love how charcoal brings shadow and light to life. It’s so simple and yet so rich with meaning all at once. Shading here, a lack of shading there, and you turn the paper into an expression of tranquility, angst, fear, and love. Every stroke holds meaning, every faded line.” I turn and meet Pyotr’s gray eyes once more.
His face is inscrutable.
“I’m sorry. Sometimes I get over-enthusiastic about art. Am I boring you?” I bite my lip.
“Actually, I enjoy hearing you speak so passionately.”
The statement’s simple and matter-of-fact, but the underlying intensity of his gaze crackles through me, setting my skin on fire. Inexplicable excitement pools deep in my belly, and I swallow to moisten my suddenly dry mouth.
Pyotr takes a slow step toward me, his eyes never leaving mine, and I’m reminded of how tall he is as I tip my head back to look into his face.
“You can draw like this?” he murmurs, tipping his head toward the drawing.
I snort and cover my mouth with embarrassment. Then slowly drop my hand to answer him. “No. No one can draw likethat,” I explain. “But I do charcoal drawings. And I’m getting better–especially now that I’m at Rosehill.”
“I’d like to see your drawings sometime,” he says, his low voice awakening my heartbeat.
“Really?” I breathe, still baffled by his sudden interest in me.
“You have got to stop asking me that,” he teases, brushing a strand of my hair over my shoulder.
I blush as I realize I must sound distrustful. Disbelieving, at the very least. “Sorry.”
“Do me a favor,” he says lightly, and I nod before really thinking through what that favor could possibly be. “Stop doubting yourself. You’re far sexier when you’re not trying to please me.”
I’m stunned silent, my lips parting to object before I realize he’s not wrong. I’ve spent so much time worrying about saying something I shouldn’t or hurting our already precarious position.But more than that, did he just call me sexy?
Heady exhilaration floods through me, and a nervous giggle bubbles up my throat. But I push it down instead, reveling in the strange new confidence that expands inside my chest.
“Now, where to next, Princess?”
I smile. “Umberto Boccioni’sSelf-Portrait,” I state.
He matches my own smile and quirks an eyebrow as he gives an approving nod. “As you wish.”
13
SILVIA
The simple white sign with green lettering labeling the restaurant Henry’s End–all in lowercase–does not convey the kind of fine dining experience Pyotr promised our dinner would be. But after such an incredible day exploring New York City, I don’t care. I’m ravenous, and at least when it comes to seeing the best of his town, I trust Pyotr.
The interior is rustic, with simple black-painted wooden chairs and tables, exposed brick, and numerous natural-wood counters displaying wine along with various other liquors. It’s a long, narrow space–common in this city, it seems, to make up for the limited space and countless people.
The smell of cooking meat and savory spices wafts through the space, making my mouth water.
“Three for dinner,” Pyotr says, and I shoot him a surprised look.
He simply responds with a mysterious grin.
Our host gives a slight bow before gesturing to one of the tables near the front window. “Best seats in the house for you, Mr. Veles,” he states graciously.
Pyotr gives a grateful incline of his head and places his hand on the small of my back to guide me to our table. Nerves tingle through me at his touch. He hasn’t kissed me yet today, but I find myself thinking about it more and more.
Pyotr pulls out my chair, and as I settle into my seat with a view of the street outside and the swiftly setting sun, I consider how that could be. He’s been awful to me. He punched Travis and chased away any friendship I managed to build. He’s insulted me, rejected me, forced himself on me. And yet, when Pyotr turns on his charm, it seems to chase away all those memories.
Like my body is looking for any excuse to find the romantic in him. The prince charming, I thought he was out the gate.
