The space between us feels smaller and tighter than ever.
“We can,” I tell her, my voice feeling too harsh, too loud, for this small space.
“You might be late for your event,” she notes. Her pupils are wide, overtaking the pale blue of her eyes, and though she gives me a small smile, there’s something strained about it.
“This is true. But we don’t have an umbrella.” I pause, licking my lips. “And it would be a shame if you got wet. No?”
She visibly swallows, eyes brightening for a moment. Then she puts her hand on the door handle. “I say we go for it.”
So then we do.
I get out of the car and take off my suit jacket, running to her side, water splashing on my legs. I immediately hold the jacket high above her head, trying to protect the both of us the best I can.
“But you’ll get wet,” she protests.
I put my arm around her, pulling her right up to me, the only way the both of us will be somewhat sheltered. “It’s not the end of the world. Let’s go,” I say, and we head off through one of the arches that lead into the city.
As we walk, the rain becomes less of an issue. It’s still pouring, but the only thing I can think about is Grace, the feel of her body pulled close to mine. She fits against me perfectly, and it feels easy and natural and … right. Like it’s always been this way, like it should always be this way.
But, by the time we finally reach the gallery, reality comes rushing back. My shirt is soaked and she’s quite wet as well.
She shoots me a grateful, albeit anxious, glance as I knock at the door to the gallery.
“Thank you for that,” she says. “But you look like a drowned rat.”
Carla opens the door, her eyes wide.
“Mio Dio!” she exclaims, holding the door open. “Entra, entra!”
We rush inside, dripping water onto the floor.
“You are soaked!” Carla cries out. “No umbrella?”
I shrug, taking my jacket and hanging it up on the coat rack by the front door. “All the hot weather has been misleading.”
She looks us up and down, shaking her head. “Okay. So you need to go dry off. I need to run out and get some more Prosecco. We have everything else set up.”
She gestures to the tall quartz table in the middle of the gallery where all the appetizers have been set up. Then she grabs the umbrella by the door. “I will be back soon. Guests won’t arrive for another half hour, so you have time.”
Then she gives us another pitying glance and leaves, running out under her umbrella into the rainy cobblestone streets.
“Come on, let’s towel off,” I tell Grace.
Against my better judgement, I reach down and grab her hand, leading her through the gallery to the store room at the back. There are a few statues in here that there’s no space for on the floor, and they loom around us like ghosts. Against one wall are stacks of paintings covered with paper—prints, not originals—and there’s a shelf crammed full of shipping and packing supplies for orders.
I leave her in there for a moment and head across the short hall to the toilet where I grab some white fluffy hand towels. I know Carla had put them there for the guests tonight. She often does a great job in prepping the space on nights like tonight, though I know she didn’t plan on me using them all to towel ourselves off.
When I come back to the storeroom, Grace’s back is to me, studying a statue. It’s life-sized, a copy of the Farnese Hercules.
I close the door behind me, taking a long moment to admire the curve of her ass in that dress, and she looks at me over her shoulder, nodding at the statue. “He’s so lifelike. His beard. The skill you have…”
“It’s a copy,” I tell her, standing behind her. “I didn’t create him. He was already created. I just copied. I wasn’t the first one, of course. The Ancient Romans liked this statue so much that copies of it were found all over the world, a thousand years ago.”
“You still need an insane amount of skill,” she says. She turns around to face me, a sly smile playing across her face. “Don’t sell yourself short. Remember?”
I ignore that by reaching out with the towel and pressing it against her chest. “You aren’t too wet,” I tell