head, sighing. “That won’t work, we’ve got the opening to the exhibition at Frasier’s Museum of Art.”
Alexander trained his focus on her. “Deconstructing the Avant-Garde?”
Logan chuckled and winked at Nico. “Fair warning, Luci might chat about it all night.”
Nico grinned. “She’s not going with me. It’s a theater thing.”
Luci popped crumbs into her mouth. “Callum got the crew tickets.”
Logan pulled out his phone. “He never mentioned it. I’ll swing by tomorrow and pick mine up. What time is it?”
Alexander caught the flash of awkwardness in Luci’s posture and his stomach knotted.
“Oh,” she said. “There were only so many tickets available and Callum bought the last ones . . .”
Logan stilled, his phone brightening as it unlocked. He stared at the screen. “I wasn’t invited?”
His voice was carefully controlled.
Luci cleared her throat. “I don’t think your brother thought you’d care to come. Post-colonial impossibilities and deconstructing the avant-garde isn’t your thing.”
Logan blinked. It was subtle, but Alexander had grown sensitive to Logan’s responses and this was hurt.
Alexander’s chest panged. He knew too well how it felt to be excluded.
“Callum said that?” Logan tried to play it off as humorous, but his voice crackled. “Guess he’s right.” He set his phone down. “Anyone else for another slice of cake?”
They all agreed, even though Alexander was sure they were full. Luci and Nico moved to the couch to better digest, encouraging them to join on the other sofa. Logan insisted on trucking dishes to the counter.
Nico protested, but Logan waved him off. “Y’all cooked, I’ll clean.”
“We’ll clean,” Alexander amended.
They filled the dishwasher, so close to each other Alexander breathed in Logan’s sweet woodsy scent and their fingers brushed between glasses. Yet Logan didn’t look at him.
Alexander had never been so attached to someone that he felt their feelings as if they were his own.
But here he was.
He wanted have words with Callum. He wanted to reach inside and rip out Logan’s fear of inadequacy. He wanted to soothe Logan’s pain.
“Your cake . . .”
Logan paused, studying the buttons on the dishwasher.
Alexander cleared his throat and continued, “It’s the best I’ve eaten.”
Finally, a rueful smile at his lips. “You don’t have to make me feel better.”
Yes, he did.
He had an idea.
He stole a lemon-flavored kiss. “Wait right there.”
Alexander sequestered himself in Nico’s bedroom with his phone and called in a few favors.
He returned, heart drumming an excited beat. “Nico? Luci? Thank you for dinner.”
Alexander hooked Logan’s gaze. “We need to be off.”
Alexander left his car and jumped into Logan’s. They parked on a side street close to Frasier’s Museum of Art, and Alexander practically dragged Logan toward the back entrance where Jason—Alexander’s former colleague—let them into the building.
“You’ve got thirty minutes,” Jason said, throwing Logan a curious look. “Cameras are on.”
Alexander held himself back from hugging the man. They weren’t exactly friends, but Alexander had given up an auction or two for Jason in the past. This more than repaid him for that sacrifice.
“We’re here for the avant-garde exhibit.”
Jason inclined his head. “Pop into my office when you leave. You caught me on a busy night. I usually would’ve left for home by now.”
Alexander expressed his gratitude once more and hooked his stunned boyfriend by the arm. They walked in silence through the contemporary exhibits to the special exhibition rooms with their shiny floors and high white ceilings.
The vibrant colors were a welcome shock to Alexander, and Logan sucked in his breath. “Wow.”
“The avant-garde movement begins with Gustave Courbet,” Alexander said eagerly, gesturing to the first two paintings.
Logan rubbed his neck. “What does, um,” he whispered. “What does avant-garde mean?”
Alexander squeezed Logan’s hand. “It pretty much means modern. All art that explores new forms.”
“Like your portraits?”
“No. Mine mimic neoclassical techniques.”
“Oh.” Logan paused. “Neoclassical?”
Patiently, Alexander explained what that meant.
Logan murmured, “Lots to learn.”
“We don’t have to discuss everything—”
“Yeah, we do. There are like two hundred pieces of art in these rooms and I don’t recognize any of them, because I did not pay attention in art class. I don’t even remember going to art class. Give me a low-down on everything, but don’t test me on any of it because I’ll embarrass myself and you’ll start having serious doubts.”
He was flustered and adorable, and Alexander settled a calming hand on his waist. “This room is dedicated to impressionism, cubism and surrealism.”
“Coolism.”
Alexander took a quiet, inquisitive Logan around the exhibition rooms, explaining each artist’s significance in the avant-garde movement.
“Okay, now my brain is bursting.”
“I’ll tone it down.”
He pointed to a painting by Cézanne. “That’s, uh, a