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“I could go for a decaf iced latte right about now,” she says with a curious glint in her eye. “And then you can tell me how you managed to snag that Jacinto Lombardo painting . . . I thought they were all destroyed?”
Years ago, 95 percent of Lombardo’s lifework perished when a museum hosting a traveling exhibit caught fire. As a personal fan of Lombardo’s work, I reached out to the owner of the collection and asked if I could buy any remaining fragments and have them restored to their former glory—if that was even possible.
After I wired him a pretty penny, the owner overnighted me an eight-by-ten scrap from a larger painting that had been badly burned. It smelled of soot and ash and had some frayed and burnt edges, but I found a local professor who was willing to take the project on as a favor. In fact, she was so excited she said she should be paying me for the honor.
“I’ll tell you all about it,” I say as we head to the elevator.
A few minutes later, we’re strolling the sidewalk at a leisurely pace, the summer sun warming the tops of our heads as a gentle breeze rustles the leafy trees. For the first time in years, there’s a tranquil mood in the atmosphere, like everything’s going to be all right.
Like the best is yet to come, perhaps.
A guy could get used to this.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
SLOANE
“What do you think their story is?” I lean in as I nod toward the couple two tables over. They’re young. Early twenties, I’m guessing. And they haven’t stopped snapping selfies since they sat down. “Do you think they’re into each other, or are they just taking pictures for the Gram?”
I expect Roman to peel his heavy gaze off me and steal a peek at the lovebirds, but I remain his sole focus.
“I don’t know,” he says, “and honestly, I don’t care.”
“Do you think it’s possible for people to be that in love, though?” I ask as the two of them nuzzle against each other and interlace their fingers. It’s like they’re the only ones in their own little world. The rest of us are nonplayer characters. Background noise. Extras. “Okay, she just climbed into his lap. Maybe they want the attention?”
“Then why give it to them?” He sips his Americano like a man without a care in the world.
“It’s not about that. I just find them interesting. People, I mean, not necessarily them. It’s like when you look at a piece of art and you study the details and intricacies and the nuances. People can be just as complex and layered as a painting.”
“Maybe their love language is physical touch,” he muses.
I steer my attention back to him.
“The fact that you know what love language is, is almost as impressive as you owning a Lombardo.” I rest my chin on top of my hands. “What’s your love language then?”
“Quality time,” he says without hesitation. “Without question. Time is my biggest asset. It’s a luxury. If I’m sharing mine with you, that means more than any kiss or sweet nothings or gift ever could.”
“Interesting.”
“What about you?” he asks.
“Same. I’m picky about who I spend my downtime with.”
“So you’re saying I should be flattered that you’re spending your Thursday afternoon with me?”
“To be fair, you lured me with art. It’s like offering candy to a kid.”
“Way to knock a guy down a few pegs,” he says with a playful glint in his chocolate irises.
The more time I spend with him, the more he lightens up. While it’s only been a handful of weeks, the Roman sitting across from me right now is a completely different person compared to the one who sat across from me on our first date.
Er, Margaux’s first date.
I keep forgetting this isn’t real.
Roman checks his watch.
“Everything okay?” I ask.
“My nanny just picked the girls up from school. They’ll be home soon,” he says, almost as if he’s apologizing—but then it hits me . . . he doesn’t want his girls to see him with me.
At least, that’s what I’m picking up on here.
“I’ll have Antonio drive you home,” he adds as he taps a text into his phone. “He should be here in about five minutes, after he drops the girls off.”
His generous offer is only a confirmation of my assumption. He’s having Antonio pick me up here so the girls don’t see me—and I understand. It’s a thoughtful and considerate move and demonstrates how deeply he cares for their emotional well-being.
“Thank you so much for the tour today,” I say as I gather my things. “It’s an experience I’ll never forget as long as I live. I know I sound cliché, but I’m still reeling. I’m going to be reeling for a while . . .”
“What are you doing tomorrow night?” He ignores my gushing. “I want to see you again.”
