11. 11
Icross over from the stairs that lead to my loft into the gallery. We don’t get any patrons until after ten, though Lars opens the doors at eight. It’s only 7:49am. I worked until after seven and then hurried to shower and get ready. I didn’t even bother putting in my contacts. I don’t want Lane to have to wait on me.
I’m not normally overly curious. I see things as they are. I hear what people say. I can usually read and understand them well.
But that text—I don’t have any idea what kind of favor Lane Jonas needs from me. Still, I offered with sincerity. I’m happy to help.
Lars’ office door is shut, but light spills out from the bottom of the entrance. He’s in there. I know better than to bother him this early. If he opens it up, I’ll explain that I’m meeting Lane here. If he doesn’t, he’s none the wiser.
My phone pings with a text, and I peer down at the smart screen. It’s from Coco, but the banner has only told me that she’s sent a photo—no text. I am centimeters away from opening up the messaging app when Lars’ office door swings open.
But Lars doesn’t walk out.
Nope. Lean legs, ash-blonde hair with a hint of blue peeking through its braided strands is somehow leaving the curator’s quarters. And while I don’t know Lane all that well, while she isn’t my sister or friend or anyone I should truly be worried about, my stomach churns with the sight.
Nope, I don’t like that.
Not one bit.
She swivels, her profile facing me. I can only see part of her face, but there’s a hint of a smile there. While Lars, head-on, is giddy with the largest, eeriest grin I’ve ever seen on the man’s face. She holds out a hand, and he accepts, shaking while assaulting her with that grin.
It’s not a greeting or a goodbye but the sealing of a deal.
What is happening?
I walk toward the two. Lars’ gaze flicks from Lane to me and his smile vanishes.
“What are you—” He snarls.
But Lane finishes for him. “Miles. Thanks for meeting me so early,” she says, slipping her arm through mine.
Lars clears his throat, swallowing down the remark he had built up for me. “I’ll be in touch, Ms. Jonas.”
“I’ll contact you,” she says, making it clear that he doesn’t need any contact information from her. Good—at least she’s a good judge of character. With her arm still snug through mine, she walks me away from Lars’ office.
I wonder which painting she’s purchased. I wonder what her taste is. I also wonder how much Lars jacked up the price when he found out who she was and what she wanted. I wish she’d asked me to be with her when she made the offer. I’m not afraid to remind Lars of worth and fairness.
We pass the janitor”s closet, then the local artist”s corner, and Lars is officially eating dust. My pocket pings with another text. And then another.
“Sorry,” I say, knitting my brows and peering down at her. “My phone is blowing up all of the sudden.”
Three texts in five minutes to anyone else may not be crazy, but it is for my cell. I slip my hand into my pocket as another text chime rings.
“Weird.” I pull out my cell. This time the banner tells me it’s a photo from my mother.
“No, Miles!” Lane shrieks—and it sounds like madness in the quiet space of the gallery. I jolt my attention up from my screen just in time to see her hands snatching away my cell. She slips the device down the neck of her pink, tucked-in T-shirt.
My brows lift, confused. “Ahh—”
“I’m sorry, but I have to talk to you first.”
My eyes drop to her abdomen, where a rectangular outline shows me exactly where my phone sits against her skin.
“O—kay, but my—”
Reaching out, Lane takes hold of the front of my T-shirt and yanks, pulling me into the small janitorial closet behind us. She slams the door closed, leaving us in the dark. Soft fingers trail past both my wrists and over my forearms. She holds me there, and while I can”t see her face, I hear the rapidness of her breath and maybe even the beating of her heart.
“Lane?”
“I have to ask you something.”
“In a closet?” I attempt to move my arm from her to search for the hanging string connected to the lone light bulb in this storeroom, but she doesn’t let me.
Her fingers grip tighter, holding me in place. And I’m starting to wonder—sure, she’s a good judge of character, but maybe I’m terrible at reading people. Because I swore this girl was sane.
“I’m just going to turn the light on,” I tell her.
“Oh. Um. Okay.” Her grip loosens enough that I can tear one arm away from her Dwayne-The-Rock-Johnson hold on me.
I search in the dark air above me, feeling for the dangling string—there it is. I tug and Lane Jonas lights up like an angel—an angel with a fluorescent halo surrounded by Windex and toilet bowl cleaner. The light bounces off of the rainbow charm around her neck, forcing my eyes there.
I clear my throat and toss away any thoughts of angels and throats. “All right, ask away.”
She lifts her blue eyes up to me, swallows, and opens her pouty lips—err, not pouty, really, just regular ol’ lips. She opens her lips—err, even better, she opens her mouth and says, “I want you to marry me.”