Chapter 2 #2
He gave her another sideways look, arching a brow. “You noticed them? It seems like you memorized them.” His thumb stroked the back of her hand, making her toes curl in her sandals.
“Guilty.” Her palm began to sweat.
She shifted her gaze forward, her face on fire, lips scrunched. Her heart was pounding so hard she could hear it. She wanted to tug her hand out of his, but also no she did not.
Was he flirting with her or holding her hostage?
Either way, it was totally working for her because she wasn’t seeing the painting in front of her at all.
Instead, every fantasy she’d ever had about him crowded her mind’s eye, starting and ending in that garden on the other side of the room.
“If I’m obsessed, it’s your—I mean his— fault.
That blow job painting over there blew my mind, so to speak,” she blurted.
Instantly, he released her.
Her sweaty palm chilled, and she bit her lip, still staring straight ahead, chagrinned. “I’m sorry—that was incredibly inappropriate.” Seriously, would she never learn to censor her thoughts?
He chuckled softly, giving her the courage to risk a glance sideways.
“Thank you.” He grinned, and it changed his face, heating his eyes and surrounding them with sexy crinkles. His lips, framed by his short, dark beard, were lush. There was nothing low-key about his hotness now, at least not to her.
“I was trying to bring that level of eroticism across.” He wiggled his fingers teasingly in front of her face. “So, could you pick this hand out of a lineup?”
Should she tell him the truth—that she could absolutely identify his hand pretty much anywhere? Or backpedal her obsession so he didn’t think she was—what? A weirdo?
Too late.
She’d already made it weird. She might as well tell him the truth. This was the exact reason she’d rushed to make it to the gallery opening, after all. She’d wanted to connect with him.
What was the worst thing that could happen? She admitted her fascination with his art, and he made an excuse to get away from her. What if he didn’t run away? Her heart fizzed with possibilities. “Honestly? Yes—I’d recognize Waterman’s hands anywhere.”
She turned to face him. “I was hoping he’d be here, since it’s his first showing. I really wanted to talk to him—and tell him how much he inspires me.”
“Seriously?” His thick, dark eyebrows rose. “He’s not well known.”
She shrugged. “Considering how talented he is, not being well known is a choice. I’m no artist, although I sometimes refer to myself that way with clients.
I’m a pastry chef.” She resisted the urge to brag about her client roster.
“I was hoping to show him the latest cake I made, inspired by his iris painting. Actually, I have an entire album of Waterman cakes. If he spent more time on social media, he’d know it.
” She cleared her throat pointedly. “It’s a damn shame he isn’t here. ”
The moment stretched, heavy thuds of her heart filling the silence.
“Not so fast,” Mike said slowly. “He might be here.”
“Oh?” Excitement detonated in her center, and she struggled to remain calm.
She took a steadying sip of her—his—wine.
Be cool, girl. Now that the shock had worn off, she was getting her mojo back.
She loved this part of meeting an attractive man: the flirty banter, the slightly too long glances, the way anticipation lit every cell of her body, making her feel awake and vibrant.
Libby, the art geek, was star-struck, but Libby, the casual dating expert, was in her element.
M. Waterman might be so talented he lit her soul on fire, but he was also just a guy, a super-hot guy looking at her in a way that made her think she had a shot at more than just admiring his paintings tonight.
“Should I click my heels three times and say ‘There’s no one like Waterman?’ Or maybe say ‘I believe in Waterman.’ Will that help him grow a pair—” She grinned.
“Of wings and fly into the room to talk to me? Just tell me what I need to do to get his attention.”
He laughed quietly, and she felt ridiculously pleased she’d amused him.
Then his gaze darkened, turned solemn.“You’d have to agree to keep his identity a secret. He flies under the radar for a reason. No pictures. Nothing on social media. Don’t even tell your friends you met him.”
Since she’d already mentally composed a text to Rebecca, who was the director of Brightworks art gallery in Manhattan, and Sylvie, who would love to photograph Waterman’s work, that was a bummer, but she would gladly lock this conversation in her personal vault if it meant an exclusive with her favorite artist, who she now knew was around her age, a total nerdy smoke show, and shared her sense of humor.
“Do I get him all to myself?” she asked, resisting the urge to fan herself.
Slowly, Mike nodded.
“Deal,” she said instantly. “But it’s going to cost him.”
Micah flinched, feeling like the rug had been pulled out from under him and he’d landed flat on his ass, winded.
She was shaking him down for money? That was a blow to his ego.
First, he’d been terrified she was going to out him, then flattered she seemed to be so familiar with his work.
He’d even thought she was hitting on him, which was pretty great because he’d been watching her since she rushed into the gallery, rolling a suitcase behind her like she planned to move in.
Her cheeks had been flushed, like she’d been running, her golden brown hair slipping out of its complicated braid.
Instantly, he’d been curious about why she was in such a hurry.
He’d flattered himself that it was because she was excited about seeing his work, and he’d used her coughing fit as an excuse to approach her.
She was even more glorious up close. Soft tendrils of brown hair curled around her high cheekbones, emphasizing her deep violet eyes. Stop staring. She wants you to buy her silence. It doesn’t matter if her eyes are the color of your favorite flower.
He took a sip of water. “You won’t get much out of Waterman. He doesn’t make money on his work.”
Her eyes widened, catching more light and changing colors in a way he itched to capture in paint. “Who said anything about money?”
“You just did.”
She shook her head. “Nope—I don’t want Waterman’s money. I want his time. That’s way more valuable to me. I’ll keep all kinds of secrets if it means I get a guided tour of this exhibit and a chance to gush over every painting with someone who loves his work as much as I do.”
His pulse tripped, and heat flooded his chest.
Was she for real? Or was he still back at the condo, sound asleep, dreaming that a beautiful woman loved his paintings and wanted to talk about art with him?
“I’d love to walk the exhibit with you,” he said before he could think about whether that was wise—because it definitely was not. “I thought being incognito would be fun, but it’s nerve-racking. I was about ten minutes and one glass of wine from running away.” More honesty slipped out.
“Introvert, huh? I can relate. I’m not a huge fan of crowds. At home, I have a small group of friends I hang out with pretty much exclusively, at least when I’m not traveling.”
“Do you travel a lot?” he asked, intrigued. “I thought pastry chefs worked in restaurants or bakeries.”
“A lot of them do. I guess I’m more of a caterer.
I make special occasion desserts for all kinds of events.
” Like the President of Mexico’s wedding cake and a proposal cake for New York’s mayor.
“I’m in Palm Beach this week to make donuts for a Hanukkah party, and then I’m flying home to celebrate with my friends. ”
“You’re—”
He stopped himself just in time. Jewish. This gorgeous, sexy art lover is Jewish. But he was M. Waterman tonight, not Micah Wasserman. He couldn’t share his faith with her because it might make it easier to connect the dots to his real identity. “You’re a big deal pastry chef, huh?” he finished.
She pursed her lips. “I can’t decide if I should be modest or not.”
“Definitely not,” he said firmly. “Are you famous?”
“Yes.” She lifted her chin and looked him straight in the eyes, stunning him with her beautiful violet gaze and unapologetic confidence.
“I’m very well-known for my custom desserts, mostly cakes, and some of them are thanks to my teeny obsession with your paintings.
” She grimaced and held up her index finger and thumb to indicate a small size.
He caught her hand between both of his and cradled it. “You can’t make that gesture at a guy. It’s not nice.” She rolled her eyes but made no effort to get out of his grip, nor did she call him out for his shameless excuse to touch her.
Did their connection feel as good to her as it did to him? From the minute Libby had grabbed his hand, he’d felt secure, like she’d thrown him a lifeline in a hurricane. A coincidence? He didn’t believe so, and he sent up a silent prayer for guidance.
No one in his real life knew about his painting, and being able to share this part of himself, to talk about it freely, was more exciting than he’d ever imagined.
What if she didn’t keep her promise? He tensed.
They’d just met, after all. He had no reason to trust her. She could out him as M. Waterman at any moment, and dozens of people in the gallery would know his secret.
He should shut her down, let go of her, and walk away, but he couldn’t make himself do it.
Inexplicably, he did trust her. Their meeting felt predestined—bashert. There was no way he’d reject this unexpected blessing.