Imperfectly Delicious (Imperfect Series #6) - Mary Frame Page 0,10

covered in the same swirled texture of the rest of the walls, a concave gap of sparkly curves. I approach the closest viewing box and bend over to peek inside.

There’s a button to push that turns on a light bulb. I push it, half expecting something deep and poetic, but it’s a hot dog. With only mustard. Who eats hot dogs like that? And why is there a hot dog at all?

The next viewfinder has a big toe made of some kind of Play-Doh material.

That’s weird. And a little creepy.

I pull away to move onto the next one, but my progress is halted by a tug on my dress. It’s my brooch, must be caught on the wall material. I give it a tug but it’s stuck good to one of the swirly patterns that’s giving the walls that shiny appearance. I feel carefully around the brooch where it’s latched, not wanting to rip my dress.

The pretty swirly pattern is jagged and pointed and sharper than it appears. The filigree on my brooch is caught around a sharp edge. I tug harder, twisting in one direction and then the other.

It’s still stuck.

Sweat beads on the back of my neck. I can’t get up. I’m stuck here, bent over and awkward. I really hope no one walks in, but at the same time, I’m not sure I can escape this on my own.

With a burst of panic, I give it a hard yank and turn and my brooch breaks free—from the wall and my dress—and goes flying up, shimmering mid-air in front of me for a brief second before plummeting to the floor on the other side of the short partition wall.

I let out a breath, thankful to be free, except…. I finger the bodice of my dress, locating a tear. But maybe I can retrieve my brooch and use it to cover up the dress. Pull it together at any rate.

I lean, stretching over the short wall. Of course, it fell against the opposite wall, as far away as possible. I reach for it in the low light, but I’m too short.

Stretching further, I fumble, feet leaving the ground.

Finally, finally, my fingers wrap around the brooch and I slide back only to yelp when I get halted again. This time, it’s my hair.

Oh no. My fancy up-do is caught on something. I think it’s the opposite wall.

I reach my free hand up to figure out where my hair got caught. Carefully, I try to extricate the strands, pulling back every few seconds to check if the grip has loosened, but the pressure doesn’t change, and I can’t tell if I’m making it better or worse.

Hesitantly, I attempt to lean back further and am immediately caught up. Now even a slight tug hurts.

Worse. I’ve made it worse.

“I’m really in a pickle, now,” I mutter to myself. I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.

“I’m not sure if that’s the proper way to view this particular piece of art,” a masculine voice says behind me.

Mortification threads its way through the relief pounding inside me. “I’m afraid I’ve got myself a little stuck . . .” With one hand, I wave in the direction of my head.

My rescuer moves to my side. I can’t see much of him—my vision is blocked by red tendrils that loosened in my struggles—but I can see he’s wearing a tux. Gentle tugs pluck at my hair.

“How did you even manage this?” The voice is rough and deep but flavored with a hint of humor, and additional heat fills my already hot face.

“I have a knack for finding myself in strange and embarrassing situations. It’s a real gift.”

His hands still for a moment. “Stranger than getting your hair caught in an interactive art exhibit?”

“Oh, yes. One time, in high school, my shirt got stuck in Jeffrey Potter’s braces, in the middle of a school play. Oh, and there was the time after one of my first job interviews, I got up, shook everyone’s hand and then walked into a coat closet.”

He leans over me a bit more, his chest pressing into my shoulder is shaking with what I think is laughter, but I don’t hear any chuckles coming from his mouth. Odd.

“How did your shirt get caught in someone’s braces? I’ve almost got you out now,” he says. The rumble of his chest against my shoulder sends a strange tingle through me but that might be the blood rushing to my head. Also, I haven’t been this close