A Million Kisses in Your Lifetime (Lancaster Prep )(42)

The spell broken by the gallery assistant, both Crew and I turn to find Kirstin standing in front of us with a smile on her face.

“It’s wonderful,” I tell her. “I’m having a hard time deciding which piece I want.”

“Oh, so you’ll definitely be making a purchase? I’m excited to see which one you choose.”

“She’s thinking about this one,” Crew says, indicating the painting we’re standing in front of.

Kirstin laughs. “It’s very striking, from her use of color to the name. I think the artist wanted to shock a little bit with this exhibit.”

“It’s the color,” I say, glancing over at the painting yet again. Realizing that Crew is watching me very carefully. It’s almost unnerving, how he’s staring at me. “I love the green.”

“It’s beautiful,” Kirstin says wistfully, her gaze now on the painting as well. I can see it in her eyes. She wishes she could own it. Own all of them. It’s why she’s working here. She’s most likely an art history major, a woman who wants to surround herself with art that speaks to her soul. Pretty things that make her feel like she’s going to burst.

I know the feeling.

“I’ll take it,” I say, and I can see the approval on Crew’s face with my choice.

“Wonderful. I’ll go write up the bill of sale,” Kirstin says before she turns away and heads for the front of the building.

“Great choice,” Crew says after she’s gone.

“Thank you. I do love it.” I stare at the painting—my painting—my chest growing tighter the longer I look at it. “I don’t know where I’m going to hang it though.”

“At your house?”

“I suppose. I just don’t want it in my parents’ collection. This one is mine.” My gaze finds Crew’s once more. “All mine.”





SIXTEEN





WREN





After I’ve made my purchase and we’re about to leave, Kirstin brings me my coat. Crew takes it from her and helps me slip it on, his hands going to my hair, fingers brushing against my nape when he pulls it out from beneath my collar. His fingers continue slipping through the strands, stroking through my hair, and I glance up at him, unable to look away from his heavy gaze.

“Didn’t want it to get caught,” he murmurs, and I nod in agreement, unable to find any words.

So I remain quiet. Lost in thought. At the realization that this isn’t some fantasy that I conjured up in my brain like I did last night. He’s actually here, standing in front of me, watching me carefully. As carefully as I watch him.

Can he feel it? The attraction between us? The chemistry? Or is it all one-sided? Am I just a silly little girl with a crush on a guy who has zero interest in me? Is he only humoring me? Toying with me?

Crew came here, to this exhibit, to seek me out. There’s no other reason for his appearance than his wanting to see me.

Me.

He escorts me out of the gallery, his hand at the small of my back, guiding me to the curb. He looks both ways before he takes my hand and leads me across the street, heading toward a black Mercedes sedan that sits idling at the curb. A man in a black suit climbs out of the driver’s side, a pleasant smile on his face.

“You found a guest, Mr. Lancaster.”

“I did,” Crew answers. “Wren, this is Peter.”

“Nice to meet you,” I say to Peter. He’s an older gentleman with salt and pepper hair and warm brown eyes.

“Miss.” Peter tips his head toward me before he reaches for the handle and opens the back door for us. I slip inside first, Crew following after me and the door shuts, enclosing us in complete silence. The only sound I can hear is the soft purr of the idling engine and my rapidly beating heart.

“Where do you want to go to lunch?” Crew asks, his voice quiet. Making me shiver.

“I don’t know.” I shrug one shoulder, my stomach suddenly protesting.

I can’t remember the last time I ate anything.

“Are you hungry?”

It’s the way he stares at my lips that makes me say, “Absolutely starving.”

“Me too.” His smile is slow.

So is mine.

After we do a little research on our phones, we settle on a restaurant not too far from the gallery that serves breakfast and lunch. The front of Two Hands Restaurant is painted a bright, cheerful blue and when we walk inside, I’m captivated by the light, airy design. It’s all white or pale wood, the brick walls white-washed, the giant light fixtures hanging from the ceiling constructed of metal wire.

The hostess leads us to the only open spot in the restaurant—a cramped table for two in front of the windows, overlooking the street. When we settle in our seats, Crew’s knees bump against mine, making me flush all over.

“How tall are you?” I ask once the hostess leaves us with menus.

He frowns. “Why do you ask?”

“Oh. You just, uh, bumped into me.”

“Sorry.”

“I didn’t mind,” I admit, my cheeks catching on fire, which is so stupid. “You have long legs.”

“I’m six-two.”

I knew he was tall. I’m only five-five.