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But her expression remains a mystery.
“Er . . . French?”
“American-French.”
“Tell me more,” I press.
“My dad is French. My mom is American.”
She whirls around and is about to walk away, but I fall into step. I want to find out everything. Is her French background the reason she favors Degas paintings? Does she live here, or is she just visiting? Is she single? I quickly realize the questions might be too forward. We just met, after all.
“Degas didn’t start off painting ballerinas, you know. Manet partly influenced him.”
“Is that so?” she replies noncommittally, though I see a shadow of a smile playing on her lips.
Her impassiveness doesn’t discourage me. I’ll get her to open up.
We stop by theHorse with Jockeyand talk about Degas’s fascination with horses. Glad that she is starting to loosen up, I steer the conversation to Manet and Lautrec’s paintings.
Soon she is immersed in art and is talking about the intricate details of the paintings she appreciates. I decide to change my plans for the day and allow her to lead me around the museum. Every once in a while, I chip in some details she isn’t privy to.
Although I cautiously pry, she’s hesitant in giving out information about herself.
For now, I’ll let it slide.
Hungry from the art talk and walking around, I suggest we get a light lunch at The Eatery on the ground floor. The place is packed, but we manage to find a table to enjoy our salads and espresso. When we’re finished, I propose taking a walk outside the museum. She hesitantly agrees.
“I haven’t been here in a while,” she mentions as I lead us out to the street, and we make our way into Central Park.
“It’s one of the best chill spots in the city. I run here often.”
A warmth rushes up my spine at her green eyes trailing my body appreciatively. Quickly, she catches herself and looks away, blushing. I can’t help the satisfied grin.
She is not immune to me, then.
Outside, the faint scent of roasted chestnuts from a street vendor’s cart intertwines with the earthy aroma of the fallen leaves. Without thinking, I take Giselle’s hand and again, feel the bolt of lightning strike through me. Shifting my gaze to her to gauge her reaction, I notice a slight widening of her eyes. But she doesn’t pull away.
“This park is invigorating,” Giselle murmurs as we walk through the rustling quilt of fallen leaves, each step releasing an earthy aroma. The pavement is flagged by beautifully manicured fields, shrubs, and trees. But I don’t notice much, her warm hand resting in mine, sending heat up my body and blood rushing southward.
“It sure is.”
We climb up the steps to the Shakespeare Garden and revel in the beauty of its greenery, bathed in shades of yellow, orange, and red.
“The Belvedere Castle is up next.”
Her forehead creases in a frown. “Oh. I can’t remember it at all.”
“When is the last time you came here?”
“About twenty years, maybe.”
I chuckle. “Really? You must have been what? Three years old?”
Laughter bubbles from her throat, a gurgling brook I want to dive into. It’s the purest, most enticing sound I’ve ever heard.
“Are you fishing for my age?” she questions with a twinkle in her eyes.
“Maybe a little. I’ve guessed that you must be in your early to mid-twenties.”
