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“Do you paint?”
My question broke her from her focus, and she turned her gaze to meet mine. Her withdrawn expression shifted to amusement. “No, I don’t. I’m terrible at it, not creatively inclined at all.” She laughed and raised her champagne glass to her lips. “What about you, Professor?”
“Me?”
“I know nothing about you other than what I’ve read about you online.” She stepped in front of me and began walking to the next painting.
“What would you like to know?”
“Do you always buy books for your students?”
“No, I don’t. But you’re one of the first students I’ve ever had, so who knows. Maybe it will become a habit.”
She was looking up at the painting but smirked. “Why did you want to leave research and go into teaching?”
“I didn’t leave research for good,” I began, accepting a glass of champagne from a passing waiter. “But I spent nearly ten years hopping from one country to another, from dig site to dig site, sleeping in tents and hostels. I haven’t ever put down roots, even temporarily. It felt like an opportunity to just... I don’t know, get to know myself.” It felt a little odd to say, but Whitney just sipped her champagne and examined my expression.
“I get that completely,” she said after a moment. “Gatlington was the first time I got to be myself as well, learn who I am. But I’d give this up to go to a dig site for research in a heartbeat.”
“How would Christian feel about that?” I bit down on the words, but it was far too late to take them back. Her eyes glimmered with a sudden heat.
“I don’t care what he thinks, or what thinks about me. I never have, probably never will.” Her mouth twisted into that cat-like smile that held me captivated anytime I saw it. Her expressions were impossible to read. She was so trained in the art of wearing a mask and hiding how she really felt.
“I shouldn’t have asked, I’m sorry.”
“It’s fine.” She turned back to the painting.
I rolled my lower lip between my teeth and tried to focus on the art, but my mind was elsewhere. “Are you meeting up with Jessica after this?”
“I thought she and I were doing this together,” she breathed with a tinge of annoyance. “So probably not. She probably found some guy to take home.”
“Do you want to grab a real drink after this then?”
“Me?” she asked.
“Yeah, you,” I laughed.
She ran her tongue over her lip as she considered. “That would be grossly inappropriate. Sounds like a plan.”
I couldn’t help but smile as we left the gallery together, the night shaping up to be far more than I’d bargained for. But as we walked toward a bar at the very end of the main drag, we passed Bill Livingston’s bookshop. The door opened right as we walked by, and the man himself poked his head out. “Hey! Rhys!”
We turned at the sound of his voice.
“Where the hell do you think you’re going without stopping in to say hi?”
“To the bar,” Whitney laughed.
Bill looked her up and down. “Ah, you must be the one he bought that book for. Hm, well, I have plenty of drinks and some fellow intellects over for a little party. Come in.” He motioned briskly for us to come inside.
Whitney and I looked at each other, shrugging. “Are you all right with this?”
Whitney beamed. “Of course,” she said, grabbing my hand to pull me along. Her gloved hand was warm in mine, and I reluctantly let go when we entered the shop.
The whole place swarmed with noise and laughter. Bill immediately swept Whitney away and up the stairs to where a small group of people sat around a low table playing cards and drinking wine. I sat beside her while introductions were made, but with the wine and the warmth and the conversation, their names quickly vanished from my mind, and all that was left was the fact that I was drinking and laughing right along with Whitney as a spirited conversation—or argument, depending on how you looked at it—about ancient Rome took place around the table.
“Where’d you find this one?” Bill asked, nudging me as he smiled at Whitney.
Whitney laid her cards on the low table, grinning with pride at the sounds of groans coming from the group as she collected her winnings—rare books, pamphlets, and an assortment of old coins.
