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“Oh, shit,” I whispered. “I’ve completely lost my mind.”
Chapter 10
Rhys
GOING TO THE GALLERY was simply something to do in lieu of grading papers and scoring practice exams leading up to midterms. I’d seen flyers for it during my last walk around town and figured a break from the monotony of campus would do me some good. I needed a distraction, especially after a week of lectures where I had to do my best not to look in Whitney’s direction.
I’d spent the last several days fighting the urge to pull her aside every time I saw her on campus and ask if she was all right, if Christian had hurt her in any way, and apologize for putting her in a position like I had when I gave her the book and he’d witnessed it.
But what I knew of Whitney made me think she knew how to handle herself.
But that knowledge also made me wonder why she put up with him in the first place.
I wasn’t sure she’d be here. There weren’t many art galleries in town, but the university had its own gallery that hosted artists from all around the world throughout the year. I figured she had everything she needed on campus, so why bother trekking out in the horrible weather to look at art, when it was available to her anytime she wanted to see it?
But here she was, looking right at me as I made my way through the increasingly crowded gallery toward where she stood with Jessica Lowry, who looked far more enthusiastic to see me.
“I didn’t know you were interested in art,” Jessica remarked as I drew close to enough to hear her over the chatter.
“It’s not my favorite thing in the world,” I admitted, but my eyes were still on Whitney. “Whitney,” I said in greeting with a bob of my head in her direction. Her name on my tongue was enough to cause my chest to tighten with sudden anticipation of what tonight held. So far, they were the only students and I the only faculty here. I might have a real chance to talk to her and try to gauge her situation back on campus before anything got out of hand with Christian.
Jessica glanced between me and Whitney and smirked, turning her attention back to me with a flip of her hair. “Well, I’m going to go look around and try to find some entertainment for the night. See you later!” She whirled on her heels and disappeared, Whitney wide-eyed and open mouthed as she watched her friend abandon her.
In my company.
She looked up at me suspiciously, her eyes searching mine. “What are you doing here?”
I narrowed my eyes at her then focused on the painting directly behind her. “Looking at art, what else?”
“Don’t you have papers to grade?”
“I do,” I said, smirking down at her. “Don’t you have a midterm to study for?”
Her cheeks reddened, but she didn’t drop her eyes from mine. “I’ve studied enough for the next few years at this rate. I’m here for a distraction.”
“Me too.”
I watched the column of her throat as she swallowed hard, something heavy settling in the air between us as we stood and looked absently at the picture before us. “Do you like it?”
“The painting?”
“Yes, what else?” Her voice broke with a soft laugh.
“I do, actually.”
“Why?” She looked up at me expectantly and with an air of authority.
I arched my brow down at her, smiling despite myself. “Are you about to quiz me on the principles of art appreciation, Ms. Dahl?”
She smiled back, the kind of smile that lit up the room, and suddenly the art scattered around the room seemed miniscule in comparison to the beauty right in front of me.
“I can tell you like it. Can I ask you why?” I asked, reluctantly breaking from her gaze to look back at the painting.
“Oh.” She grinned with a sigh. “It’s... enticing. The colors, the way the artist used just the smallest of strokes, the way I feel when I look at it—” She gazed up at the sweeping landscape full of the colors of a rich, vibrant spring. A woman dressed in the Georgian style sat beneath the shade of a tree, and a man stood nearby, leaning on a farming tool of some kind—a pitchfork, perhaps—as he spoke to her. “She’s a noble lady based on her dress, and he is... not. A farmer, likely a tenant of whatever property she lives on with either her father or husband. The way she’s looking at him—” Whitney’s hands moved in the air several inches away from the painting’s surface, her eyes suddenly glassy with intense focus. “This painting is about unrequited love. Forbidden love. See how the colors and details are much warmer and brighter in the space between them, but the colors fade and take on a cooler, colder tone on the outside of the landscape?”
I hadn’t noticed until she brought it up, but she was right.
“They would have never been able to be together, not publicly. He would have lost his job, and her reputation would have been inexplicitly ruined.” Whitney’s voice trailed off, a hint of longing lingering at the edge of each word. “It’s desperately sad.”
