asked as we came to a stop.
I snapped my gaze away from the man to the work of art before us. The painting appeared juvenile in a fun way with colors, a skeleton, and maybe a dog.
“I like the colors.” My only experience with art had been during school field trips to the Art Institute of Chicago. They had a famous painting of an old woman and man in front of a farmhouse with a pitchfork. For the life of me, I couldn’t recall the artist’s name. It was more realistic than what we were seeing.
I glanced back to find my mystery man still present.
As Alex assessed the brushstrokes, I peered around for Renita and Marianne and found them across the room. My gaze fluttered back to the man.
Alex Demetri reached out and patted my arm. “Relax, Lorna. These parties can be pretty boring if you overanalyze. I just let Nox do his thing and enjoy a little make-believe.”
“Make-believe?”
“Oh, I know these stuffy people. I grew up with them, and believe me; they don’t dress like this every day. It’s all a show—smoke and mirrors. Have fun with it. Reality comes back quick.”
I felt my cheeks warm.
“What?” Alex asked.
“My reality is probably a lot different than yours or anyone else’s.”
“I’ll tell you a secret.” She leaned closer. “My husband is super intense. He gets it from his father. He also obsesses. And...he can be great in every way. But here’s the secret: he keeps me awake sometimes when he snores. It doesn’t happen every night.”
I couldn’t help but laugh.
“My point is that it doesn’t matter who any of these people are...they’re flesh and blood just like you. Have fun with it.”
A ding came from Alex’s purse, out of place amongst the art. “Oh shit, sorry.” Quickly, she opened her purse, checking her phone. “I apologize, Lorna. I need to take this call. I’ll catch up with you.”
With a reassuring smile, I nodded.
“Oh, and on the other side of the courtyard is a ballroom. I hope you’re ready to dance later.”
My thoughts went to my high heels. “Thanks, Alex. It was great to meet you.”
As she walked away, I turned back to the painting before me, wondering if there was a hidden message.
“Are you interested in neo-Expressionism?” a deep voice asked from behind me.
A quick crane of my neck and a whiff of spicy cologne let me know my mystery man from across the room was now close enough to touch.
“It’s growing on me,” I replied, offering him a smile.
8
“I’m fascinated by his life,” the man said, his deep voice sending vibrations, electrifying my skin.
“His?” I read the name on the plate attached to the frame. “Jean-Michel Basquiat.”
“A modern-day genius. He’s not only a talented artist, but also a musician. Did you know that he could read and write by four years of age and dropped out of school in the tenth grade?”
“Like Einstein.”
“Einstein’s problem was more with interpersonal relationships.”
The heat from this man’s body brought warmth soaring through my circulation. It was all I could do to concentrate on his words or the artwork.
“His teachers,” the man went on, “felt Einstein was disrespectful because he questioned. In reality, even at a young age he was smarter than they and most simply wanted explanation, unwilling to take information at face value.”
I stared up at the art. “I would imagine that Jean-Michel’s intelligence also made remedial school boring.”
“Sometimes you have to push on,” he scoffed. “And sometimes you need encouragement.”
“Did you have encouragement when you were young?”
“My grandmother would have tanned my backside if I quit school.” He gently touched my shoulder, turning me his direction. “You?”
I gasped.
“Are you all right?” he asked, reaching for my arm.
“I-I am.” I was. It was his eyes, dark brown, yet like the painting, filled with colors, drawing me in like no stare I’d seen before. “I guess” —I shifted on the tall heels trying to recall what we were talking about— “too much champagne and not enough food.”
“We can’t have that.” His large hand brought heat and stability to the small of my back, and just as quickly, it disappeared. “Can I...may I help?”
“Yes.” Touch me. I want you to touch me. I stopped myself before more than yes escaped my lips.
With a man as tall as he was, his touch was both steady and feather light. It was as if he wanted to help me but didn’t want me to break. Together, we walked to a small bench outside the gallery, the other direction