only line of the Art Institute.
The first place I ever laid eyes on Ward. He was a couple paces ahead of me and my dating wreck. He looked like a dark knight from the back, broadside shoulders ready to face down anything.
Then I saw his grumpalicious face, already taut with frustration at the seemingly drunk girl and her horrible date.
Why did I come here again when everything reminds me of us?
That’s how bad this lovesick virus is.
He’s even invaded my favorite place, leaving scorch marks everywhere on the fabric of my life.
Ridiculous. I blink back tears. I’m not going to cry.
Straightening up, I wander through the abstract paintings and contemporary photo section. I must want to punish myself—or maybe I just have Ward on the brain—but I’m also facing my demons.
I don’t even pause when I get to the architecture exhibit.
All the snarly, hurtful barbs in the world can’t murder the beauty of Beatrice Brandt’s work.
He won’t ruin this for me.
I won’t let him—or will I?
My stomach sinks. Every step feels like weighted cement in this exhibit.
Around the corner, there’s the place where Tinder-freak had me cornered. I twisted my ankle, slid across the floor, and plowed headfirst into a sculpted god’s very human knee.
He did the pretending then.
He took me in, a stranger damsel in distress, already entranced by his smoldering charms.
But it didn’t take long at all for the raging, arrogant jackass to come out, did it?
If I could’ve seen past his physical perfection and through my raging hormones, I would’ve kept a safe distance.
A man who does a good deed and then tries to punish someone for it isn’t worth a single second of love fever.
Memories attack me like kitten claws, darting through my brain, demanding attention.
Ward the handsome, too intriguing stranger at my apartment, feeding me a sandwich.
Ward the bosshole, working me half to death, always spitting coffee when I struck back.
Ward the man, the lover, the fake who got too real.
Ward the bitter memory, the hole in my heart, the grumpy, sexy, cruel thing I have to keep in a vault and bury in the center of the Earth.
And I’m doing a pretty pathetic job of that right now.
I take a deep breath, release, and retreat to the stairwell. I’m not strong enough for this exhibit yet.
That’s okay.
I know where I’ll find my true love. I walk downstairs and out the back door to the sculpture garden.
The eclectic statues never hurt, but they don’t offer me much peace today. They’ve lost their magic. Their normal beauty feels tainted, and I can’t enjoy it.
I sit down on a bench, hugging my arms around my waist like I can hold myself together.
This sucks rotten eggs.
I feel like a crazy person, wandering around this beautiful place and suffocating, too trapped in the past to enjoy the art.
Maybe I should just Netflix and chill with my bad self until I feel human, and worry about it then. I could go home and start emailing old clients to see if anyone needs help with a project.
My creativity might be tapped out, but if someone bites, it could be the jump-start I need.
A woman in a grey dress wearing dark sunglasses with a burgundy scarf over her head sits beside me. I’m a little annoyed when there must be five other benches, and only one of them is populated.
“How are you doing, dear?”
What? That voice?
“Beatrice?” I blink, wondering if I’m hallucinating.
Shock knifes through me.
Jesus. He’s using his sick grandmother to harass me now?
But then again, would she ever agree to being Ward’s messenger?
Nah.
One look at Beatrice Brandt’s tense expression tells me she wouldn’t be here unless she wanted.
“Do you know why I hired you?” she asks quietly, looking over her shades.
“No clue.” I rub one eye, checking one more time to see if she disappears.
Nope.
“You attached a personal statement with your application,” Beatrice says. “In it, you called yourself a dreamer, and it resonated instantly. Dreamers are something we all needed then, and still do. My family was short on dreams, and has been for a while, including yours truly.”
I tilt my head, unsure where she’s going.
“No one ever recovered from my husband’s death, and the boys just wanted to not be mistaken for their parents. They grew up in the firm. I’m not sure it’s something either of them would have chosen under other circumstances.”
“I can’t speak for Nick, but I can’t imagine Ward being anything but a CEO,” I say, wondering what she’s looking for.
She gives me that regal