compliments my outfit, telling me that I'm gorgeous and giving me a lingering hug that makes me super uncomfortable. The way he looks at me when he finally pulls away tells me that he's already getting feelings that I don't have. Maybe this was a bad idea after all.
We eat dinner first, where the conversation is awkward because we have almost nothing in common, then I'm whisked away to the event. The only thing making it bearable is the fact that they have free wine. Art is definitely subjective. A lot of the paintings, some large enough to take up almost an entire wall, are just smears of thick paint on a canvas. I'm sure that if someone gave me a paintbrush and enough booze, I could come up with something similar. The booze probably isn't even necessary, it would just make it more fun. No, I definitely don't get this style of art.
We make our way around the exhibit, pausing at the artwork that catches our attention to take a few moments of contemplative staring. I think that's what you're supposed to do. Stand there and assess what the artist was thinking when they were creating the art, what it meant to them and how it translates into what it should mean for the viewer. Lots of deep thinking involved at these sorts of things.
We stop in front of a painting of a woman holding three babies in her arms. Both of her breasts are exposed, and two of the babies are suckling. The third looks like he's asleep, though lord knows how he could be when he's crammed next to his siblings. While I'm looking at it, pretending to be interested, something else catches my attention.
In my peripheral vision, I see a man standing a few yards away. He's tall with impeccable posture, the expensive-looking gray suit he's wearing fitting him like a glove. One of his hands is in his pocket, the other is holding a wine glass. He swirls the red within absentmindedly as he talks to two other men.
For a minute, I think I'm seeing things. The twitch in my chest when my eyes focus on his face confirms it though. His soft blue eyes are sparkling, perhaps from enjoyment of the situation, perhaps from a buzz. His lips are spread into a wide grin, two rows of perfect white teeth showing through. His hair is a bit more mussy than it was the other day. His five o'clock shadow, a bit darker. Dear God, he's even more gorgeous than I remember.
I gasp and quickly turn away, scared that he'll see me. Immediately, fight-or-flight response kicks in. If I had wings, I know I would take off and sail right out of the building. I don't have wings though. Even worse, we're not halfway through the exhibit, and we're headed in his direction.
“ Are you alright?” Richard puts his hand on the small of my back, making me cringe from his touch.
Desperately trying to come up with a plan, I chug what's left of my wine, not caring if it makes me look like a slob.
“ I need a refill,” I tell him before taking long strides towards the wine table which is in the opposite direction from Colton Larsen.
I don't turn back around until my glass is full. Richard is standing too close. He cages me in with his arms, looking down at me with concern.
“ Are you sure you're alright?” He quirks a bushy eyebrow.
“ I'm just feeling overheated is all.” I fan myself with my free hand, leaning over a little to look past him and see if Colton has moved on.
Colton glances over at me, and the second he catches my gaze, I duck back behind Richard. Thank God Richard is a lot taller and wider than I am. He provides near perfect coverage.
“ Let's get you underneath the air conditioning.” Richard herds me a few feet away beneath one of the air vents.
I'm practically shaking from the stress of knowing that Colton has a clear view of me now. Wanting to avoid connecting with him at all costs, I keep my eyes on the floor, hoping he won't recognize me—or if he does, that he'll just move on.
“ Is that better?” Richard rubs my shoulders.
I can't help but wonder if he knows my
We eat dinner first, where the conversation is awkward because we have almost nothing in common, then I'm whisked away to the event. The only thing making it bearable is the fact that they have free wine. Art is definitely subjective. A lot of the paintings, some large enough to take up almost an entire wall, are just smears of thick paint on a canvas. I'm sure that if someone gave me a paintbrush and enough booze, I could come up with something similar. The booze probably isn't even necessary, it would just make it more fun. No, I definitely don't get this style of art.
We make our way around the exhibit, pausing at the artwork that catches our attention to take a few moments of contemplative staring. I think that's what you're supposed to do. Stand there and assess what the artist was thinking when they were creating the art, what it meant to them and how it translates into what it should mean for the viewer. Lots of deep thinking involved at these sorts of things.
We stop in front of a painting of a woman holding three babies in her arms. Both of her breasts are exposed, and two of the babies are suckling. The third looks like he's asleep, though lord knows how he could be when he's crammed next to his siblings. While I'm looking at it, pretending to be interested, something else catches my attention.
In my peripheral vision, I see a man standing a few yards away. He's tall with impeccable posture, the expensive-looking gray suit he's wearing fitting him like a glove. One of his hands is in his pocket, the other is holding a wine glass. He swirls the red within absentmindedly as he talks to two other men.
For a minute, I think I'm seeing things. The twitch in my chest when my eyes focus on his face confirms it though. His soft blue eyes are sparkling, perhaps from enjoyment of the situation, perhaps from a buzz. His lips are spread into a wide grin, two rows of perfect white teeth showing through. His hair is a bit more mussy than it was the other day. His five o'clock shadow, a bit darker. Dear God, he's even more gorgeous than I remember.
I gasp and quickly turn away, scared that he'll see me. Immediately, fight-or-flight response kicks in. If I had wings, I know I would take off and sail right out of the building. I don't have wings though. Even worse, we're not halfway through the exhibit, and we're headed in his direction.
“ Are you alright?” Richard puts his hand on the small of my back, making me cringe from his touch.
Desperately trying to come up with a plan, I chug what's left of my wine, not caring if it makes me look like a slob.
“ I need a refill,” I tell him before taking long strides towards the wine table which is in the opposite direction from Colton Larsen.
I don't turn back around until my glass is full. Richard is standing too close. He cages me in with his arms, looking down at me with concern.
“ Are you sure you're alright?” He quirks a bushy eyebrow.
“ I'm just feeling overheated is all.” I fan myself with my free hand, leaning over a little to look past him and see if Colton has moved on.
Colton glances over at me, and the second he catches my gaze, I duck back behind Richard. Thank God Richard is a lot taller and wider than I am. He provides near perfect coverage.
“ Let's get you underneath the air conditioning.” Richard herds me a few feet away beneath one of the air vents.
I'm practically shaking from the stress of knowing that Colton has a clear view of me now. Wanting to avoid connecting with him at all costs, I keep my eyes on the floor, hoping he won't recognize me—or if he does, that he'll just move on.
“ Is that better?” Richard rubs my shoulders.
I can't help but wonder if he knows my
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