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I can’t imagine what reason I have to do so, but even though I barely know the guy, I feel safe with him.
“Yeah, of course.” With that, I slide the helmet on.
I came here for an adventure after all.
He’s got this faint smile as he watches me. Like he’s in on a secret. I don’t know how to read it or why it’s directed at me, but I like it.
Nate helps me adjust the chin strap, then tucks a few strands of hair out of my eyes. The light brush of his fingers against my forehead leaves my throat dry. Then he gets on the bike and disengages the kickstand. I hop on behind him, my pulse quickening when Nate takes my wrist to wrap my arm around his waist.
“Hold on tight. It gets bumpy.”
Leaning forward, I practically paste myself to his back. He’s muscular beneath my arms. I feel his abdomen expand and contract as he balances our weight on the tires. The bike roars to life, and he puts it in gear. Then we’re peeling off from the curb through the rushing air down the streets of Notting Hill.
Not long ago, my dad wouldn’t let me go to my college classes without texting me every ten minutes. I was the only nineteen-year-old I knew with a curfew. But as much as I appreciate Dad’sconcerns, I can’t live my life governed by his fears. This is the most impervious, indestructible time of my life.
If I don’t take advantage of it now, I’ll eventually end up an old woman with few scars but more regrets.
13
WE DON’T TALK DURING THE TWO-HOUR RIDE SOUTH, OUT OF THEsuburbs and through the countryside to the coast. It’s just the rumble of the machine between our legs and the wind across my face. The blur of green and smell of briny waters as we draw closer to the riverside village.
Nate slows as we drive along cobblestone streets lined by Tudor buildings. Rye is one of those adorable, picturesque English villages I imagined from movies and books. A collection of old houses beside quaint shops, centuries-old lampposts, and ivy climbing the walls.
We park along the curb a few blocks from the museum, and I pull out my phone to map the walk.
“If you have other stuff you need to do, I can entertain myself here for a while,” I say, setting my helmet on the seat.
He pops out the kickstand and turns off the bike. “Wouldn’t be a very good escort if I abandoned you in the middle of nowhere, now would I?”
The wordescortexiting his mouth does weird things to me. His whole mouth does things to me, in fact. The curve of his lower lip when he talks. The flash of white teeth. I become stupidly entranced until he pulls his helmet off and runs his hand through his hair.
His hair.
“Well, okay then.” I abruptly head for the sidewalk, because another second of staring at him and I’ll become embarrassingly obvious.
“Lead the way.” The soft chuckle tickling my back says he damn well knows I was checking him out.
The museum is in a small two-story building in the village center beside a café and used bookshop. Inside, white walls display framed portraits and muted landscapes. An older woman comes to greet us at the sound of the chime above the entrance.
“Good afternoon. Welcome.” She’s short and petite, wearing all black save for a colorful scarf hanging delicately over her slight shoulders. “I’m Marjorie, the curator here. What brings you in today?”
Her gaze lingers questioningly on Nate as he drifts away to look at the art. Admittedly, he stands out in a place like this, wearing a leather jacket over a simple T-shirt and lived-in jeans.
“My name’s Abbey Bly,” I tell her. “I’m a student in London, and I wondered if I might ask you about a painting by Franklin Dyce. I understand he’s from Rye.”
“Yes, of course.” Her face lights up, giving the impression she doesn’t receive many visitors. “We have several of his works here on display. I’m happy to help if I can.”
I pull up a photo of the painting on my phone to show her. Marjorie slides her glasses from the top of her head to the bridge of her nose, then holds the phone closer to get a good look.
“Anything you could tell me would be helpful,” I say hopefully.
“Without seeing the painting itself…” She continues to examine the image. “Yes, I’d say the color and composition are consistent with Dyce’s portraiture. Come.”
She leads me to a room off to the right. On the near wall are several portraits of ladies in postwar-style dresses and men in formal military uniforms.
“These are all Dyce. Let’s see…” She studies them for a moment, then the photo again. “An educated guess would be between 1946and 1952. A young woman of nobility wasn’t wearing her hair like this much later than that.”
“Any idea who she might be?” I try to temper my excitement.
