Crash Into Me(16)

The fact that I had done a little of my own stalking of him didn't escape me either. We made one interesting couple.

"Tristan, please just tell me what you want. I know you're probably used to women who love this mysterious Bruce Wayne-Batman behavior, but I'm just an ordinary soul who likes straight answers."

"Why do you always think you're so ordinary?"

I yanked my hand from his and shook my head. "No more! You show up out of nowhere in the alley behind the gallery, force me to go for a ride, and now you show up at a bar I hang out at. Are you some kind of scary stalker guy or do I owe your company for some kind of bill and you're here to collect? Either way, you're driving me crazy!"

I hadn't meant to sound so emotional, but there it was. The truth. I barely knew this person and already he drove me nuts.

Instead of looking surprised like I thought he would, he just smiled. Not that it wasn't a gorgeous smile, but something about it just sent me over the edge. I stalked away toward home, frustrated enough not to care whether he liked it or not.

I heard his footsteps behind me as he walked quickly to catch up with me. It felt good knowing he wanted to talk to me, even if all he said sounded like damn riddles!

"Nina, I'm sorry. Stop and let me talk for a minute."

Spinning around, I was nearly knocked over as he took a step right into me. His much larger and muscular body crashed into mine, and I went tumbling backwards. Thankfully, he caught me before I landed on my ass.

There I was, in his strong arms, staring up into those dark eyes as he gazed down at me. "You want to talk? All you say are one syllable words and sentences that make no sense. I'd love it if you'd talk, but you don't."

"I'm not usually much of a talker, but you seem to want to hear what I have to say, so let's talk."

He released me and I stood up, smoothing my dress over my thighs. "About what?" I didn't mean to sound so exasperated, but the man had a way of bringing that out in me.

"Art."

More one syllable words. If it wasn't no or yes, it was art with this guy. "Art? What about it?"

"Why do you work at that gallery if you went to school for art history?"

Talking about work wasn't talking about art. Deflated, my shoulders sagged under the disappointment that he seemed once again interested in hearing about my job as personal gopher to Sheila Anderson.

"Because even though I possess more knowledge about the art world in my little pinky finger than my boss does in her entire body, I also only possess a bachelor's degree in art history. To be a curator or someone who deals with exhibitions, you have to have experience in the gallery world, which is what my slave labor job is."

"It's too bad you don't know anyone who owns their own art gallery."




Blowing the hair off my face, I said in frustration, "Yes, it is."

We stood there at that odd point in the conversation looking at each other like neither one of us had understood the other one's language. To be honest, I was beginning to think he was from some other planet by the way he behaved, but since he hadn't grown tentacles or extra heads and was getting more gorgeous by the minute, I still liked him, as bizarre as that seemed to someone like me who prided herself on good judgment.

"You could work at one of mine."

And with those seven words my spirits were buoyed once again.

"You have more than one art gallery?" I asked in stunned amazement, jumping over the obvious first question about him having even one art gallery.