you probably wouldn’t tell me if you thought they sucked.”
I throw my head back and laugh lightly.
“You’re kidding, right?” My hand shoots out and I press it gently to the center of his chest and give him a playful shove. He teeters a little on the heels of his loafers and cracks a smile.
“Pu-lease!” I roll my eyes for added effect. “You know as well as anybody that these paintings are far from ‘sucking.’ ” I laugh again, and my purse strap begins to fall off my shoulder, bringing my dress strap down with it. Luke reaches out and catches the strap of my dress with his finger and slowly slides it back into place. The touch, although light, sends shivers up my arm. I swallow anxiously and my eyes begin to wander. Toward the floor, to his feet, then to his shirt and his tanned, muscled arms pressed against the rolled-up blue sleeves, and then to his neck and ultimately back into his eyes again.
With my camera still in hand, I step over to Luke’s side and say with a really bad English accent, “Mind if I photograph you with your masterpiece?”
Immediately he begins to shake his head. “Oh no,” he says, waving a hand at me. “I really don’t think I—”
“Come on, just a few quick shots,” I urge him.
Still he doesn’t look convinced.
“Pleeease?” I say with all the sweetness I can muster and top it off with a smile. It must be infectious because now he’s smiling back at me and I find a heat in it this time that I’ve never felt before.
“All right.” He gives in, and I feel my face light up like a Christmas tree.
Luke steps up to the painting of the Bottom of the World and stands in front of it with a shy awkwardness, his hands buried in his pockets again, his shoulders stiff with uncertainty. Dropping my purse on the floor beside my sandaled feet, I shake my head at him and wave my free hand.
“No—crouch down in front of it”—I step up and point out the perfect spot with the tips of my toes—“right about here.”
When I step out of the way, Luke does as I instruct and crouches, the top of his shoulder overlapping the base of the painting.
“Just look natural,” I go on, “and don’t look at me, but off in the distance. And don’t smile.”
Luke sits crouched on the pads of his feet, his heels raised from the floor, with his elbows resting on the tops of his thighs, his hands dangling stiffly between them. I move several feet away and stand at an angle so that I’m not directly in line with him and the painting and I start snapping shots. Six, twelve, eighteen, as many as I can and all in different angles.
Finally I put the camera away and Luke pushes himself up on his toes.
“So, um”—he waves a hand about the vast room—“you got any event planning pointers?” he says distractingly, changing the subject, and it’s so cute I can’t help but smile.
I pucker my lips, cross one arm over my stomach, and raise my other hand to my chin, pretending to look professional and contemplative.
“Hmm,” I say and look to my left, and then my right, taking my time. “Well, do you have a theme?”
Luke reaches up and nervously scratches the back of his neck.
“No, not really,” he says. “Unless Community Charity Art Event is considered a theme?”
I smile warmly. “Well, I mean more along the lines of”—I purse my lips in thought and then point at him—“think about a prom; there’s always a theme: a masquerade, Mardi Gras, Alice in Wonderland—there are so many things to pick from.”
Luke looks upward in thought, slowly nodding his head.
“That’s a good idea,” he says, and his eyes meet mine. “But there’s not a big budget for the setup. Honestly, Melinda never actually gave me a dollar amount, but I know that whatever it is, it’s not going to be a whole lot.”
I nod and think on it another moment, chewing on the inside of my mouth gently. I’m used to money being little to no issue when it comes to events, and now that I think about it, since this is a charity event, it’s counterproductive to spend a lot on a setup when that money could go toward the charity itself.
“OK, how about you find out Melinda’s budget,” I suggest, “and we’ll go from there. We’ll keep it simple. Depending on what we