Imperfectly Delicious (Imperfect Series #6) - Mary Frame Page 0,13

bathroom? She’s going to think I’m a creep. I am being a creep. Shaking my head, I walk back in the direction of the ballroom but when I arrive, the doors are shut and there’s an attendant standing sentry.

She gives me an apologetic smile. “Sorry. The speeches have started so we aren’t letting anyone in for another thirty minutes.”

“No problem.” I step off to the side and stop in front of a charcoal print of an old man, gazing at it blankly.

After a few minutes, the attendant speaks again. “Sorry, speeches have started. We still have about twenty-five minutes until we can let people back in.”

“Oh. Right.”

I turn at the voice, recognizing the low cadence.

She’s fixed her dress. Sort of. She’s stuffed some paper towels into her top. I bite my lip so the smile doesn’t break free.

She faces me.

“I know, it’s terrible,” she says before I can make any comments. “I’m probably just going to leave.” She’s flustered, her eyes touching every object in the general vicinity except for me.

It makes me crave her focus even more.

“It’s not…too bad.” I grimace.

Now her dark blue gaze sweeps to mine and her lip tilts up on one side. “You’re a terrible liar.”

I shrug. “Lying has always seemed pointless.”

“I suppose so.” She crosses her arms over her chest, but it doesn’t completely cover the paper towel sticking up out of the top of her dress.

“When is it ever a good idea to lie?” I ask, mostly just wanting to keep the conversation going. Wanting to hear her talk. There’s a lilt in her voice, and I’m trying to place it.

Her nose wrinkles. “When you don’t want to hurt someone’s feelings, maybe?”

“But if they ultimately discover the truth anyway, wouldn’t that be worse?”

“Probably.”

She fidgets with her dress, twitching next to me and clearly uncomfortable.

“Would you like to wear my jacket?”

She immediately shakes her head. “No, thanks.”

“You’re sure?”

“Well.” She glances back at the attendant who’s studiously avoiding watching us. “Maybe.”

I shrug it off and hand it to her.

“Thanks. I’ll make sure you get this back before I leave.”

She pulls it on, the fabric dwarfing her small frame and an odd sense of proprietary gratification sweeps through me.

What is that?

It’s nothing. I clear my throat and glance around, looking for something else to focus on. “No problem. What do you think about this print?” I nod to the charcoal drawing of an old man. It’s all dark colors and rough smudges, highlighting his wrinkles and prominent features. His face is worn and sad.

“He has kind eyes,” she says.

I study her profile in surprise and then turn back to the piece. “I guess you’re right.” I didn’t notice that bit.

“I bet he’s the type of grandpa that tells poop jokes to his grandkids, and he’s retired from some important job like mayor or neurosurgeon. He probably goes to the same coffee shop every morning and they know him by name, but still he hardly ever speaks. When he does it’s to impart something profound, like, ‘What we think, we become’.”

I stare at the portrait and then back at her. “You got all that from this?”

Her smile is brighter than the sconce on the wall. “Didn’t you?”

I step over to the side. “What about this one?”

We walk around the gallery and she makes up stories about each portrait and I don’t think I’ve ever been so entertained, or as intrigued, by anyone in my life—even though she’s jumpy. Even with my jacket on, she fidgets with her dress and is careful to maintain distance between us. A distance that starts to bother me, even though I can’t quite put my finger on why.

“Your boyfriend must be a happy man,” I say at one point. Yes, I’m digging, but I can’t help it.

The comment must surprise her, because she stumbles and nearly runs into a sculpture.

I reach out and clasp her elbow with gentle fingers. “Careful.” Once she’s stable, I still don’t let go. I don’t want to.

“I don’t have a boyfriend,” she says. She doesn’t step back like I expect since she’s been so skittish around me. We’re standing only a foot apart. The narrow hallway is empty.

Her tongue slips out and wets her bottom lip and it’s like a tractor beam. Magnetic force. She’s staring at my mouth, and her pupils are dilated, and her breathing starts to quicken, setting up an answering pulse in my chest.

“I just want you to be aware,” her voice isn’t much more than a whisper, “that this is all your