Chapter 24 #2
I exhale through my nose, conceding the point. “Fine. Your turn.”
She taps her fork against the plate thoughtfully. “I talk to paintings.”
I blink. “You what?”
“Only certain paintings,” she clarifies quickly. “When I’m restoring something, I ask it questions. I ask it, why it is sad? I try to imagine where the painting is most broken, and what would make it smile again.”
“That’s not strange,” I say. “It’s analytical.”
“It’s anthropomorphizing canvas.”
“It’s intimacy with your craft.”
She pauses at that, her eyes softening slightly. “See? The way you do that.”
“Do what?”
“You take something potentially embarrassing and make it sound strategic.”
“I prefer to call it reframing,” I say. I lean forward, resting my forearms on the table. “Why restoration?”
She doesn’t answer immediately. She traces the rim of her glass with a finger instead.
“Because I hate the idea of losing things,” she says eventually. “Not in a possessive way. In a historical way. Every painting carries the fingerprints of everyone who’s stood in front of it. Wars. Moves. Owners. Dust. Time. Restoring it feels like giving it another chance to be seen properly.”
There’s no performance in her voice now. No teasing.
“You think things deserve second chances,” I say.
“Yes,” she replies simply.
“And people? Do they deserve second chances?”
She looks up at that. “Mostly. Not pedophiles, rapists, and serial killers, though.”
A quiet settles between us, not heavy, but thoughtful.
“What about you?” she asks. “Why business? And don’t say legacy or because of Joseph.”
I give her a look. “You eliminated all my prepared answers.”
“Good. I don’t want prepared, I want truth.”
I roll the stem of my glass between my fingers. “Control,” I say finally.
She waits.
“I grew up around instability,” I continue evenly. “Money fixes instability. Systems fix chaos. If you build something strong enough, it doesn’t fall apart when someone unreliable leaves.”
Her expression shifts. Not pity, not judgment, just understanding. “So, you build structures,” she says quietly. “Like Leonardo.”
“I suppose I do.”
She studies me, her gaze searching my face. “But what happens when something unpredictable enters the frame?”
I hold her eyes with mine. “It depends on whether or not it strengthens the composition.”
Her mouth curves faintly. “You talk about life like it’s a hostile takeover.”
“It’s more efficient that way.”
“But surely, lonelier?”
The word lands softly.
“I like solitude,” I say.
“That’s not what I asked.”
I look at her more closely now. “You’re very direct.”
“I don’t like guessing games.”
“Most people do.”
“I restore damaged things for a living,” she says. “Guessing wrong can ruin them.”
The honesty in that tightens something in my throat for a moment.
“Tell me something else,” she says gently. “Something no one would assume about you.”
I consider deflecting. Instead, I decide to give her something. “I play the piano.”
Her eyebrows lift. “You do not.”
“Sorry, I do.”
“Classical?”
“Of course.”
She leans forward, her chin resting lightly in her hand.
“When?”
“Late. When I can’t sleep.”
“What do you play?”
“Rachmaninoff. Chopin. Whatever demands precision.”
A slow smile spreads across her face. “You’re far more layered than you pretend to be.”
“I don’t pretend to be a machine.”
“You absolutely do.”
“And you?” I counter. “You hide plenty.”
Her eyes flash with surprise. “I do not.”
“You deflect with humor when something matters.”
She opens her mouth, presumably to argue the point, then she snaps it closed again. “That’s observant,” she admits after a moment.
“Listening is my thing, remember?” I remind.
She reaches for the wine at the same time as I do. Our fingers brush deliberately this time. Neither of us pulls away immediately.
“What scares you?” she asks suddenly.
I arch a brow. “That escalated fast.”
“Answer me.”
I glance down at our hands, still touching lightly around the glass bottle. I gently pick the wine bottle up and pour out the last of the wine, sharing it between our glasses.
“Wasted potential,” I say.
She frowns slightly. “Meaning?”
“Building something halfway. Settling for mediocrity. Investing in the wrong future.”
She studies me as her thumb shifts slightly against mine. “I’m afraid of being too noticeable,” she says quietly.
“Why fear it? You are someone who naturally commands attention. Most women would weaponize it, but one of the nicest things about you is that you don’t.”
She smiles at that, a small, conspiratorial smile that feels like it belongs to just us.
She tells me smaller things about herself then.
Like the way she drinks her coffee too hot and burns her tongue every time.
And her habit of reading the last page of a novel first to see if it’s worth the emotional investment.
“That’s monstrous,” I tell her.
“It’s efficient,” she shoots back.
“It ruins the narrative arc.”
“It protects my heart.”
I shake my head. “You are chaos disguised as order.”
“And you are sentiment disguised as order.”
There it is again, that unsettling accuracy. I don’t know how she does it, but Jo sees me more clearly than anyone I’ve ever known.
The waiter clears our now empty dessert plates, but neither of us moves to leave. Halfway through dinner, another couple came in, but even they have left. Even the city outside seems dimmer, more private.
Jo laughs at something I say, head tipping back slightly, and I find myself leaning in without thinking. Drawn to her. Every time she reaches for her glass, her fingers graze mine. Every time she makes a point, she touches my wrist as if anchoring herself. None of it feels accidental.
I find myself memorizing the cadence of her voice.
“You’re very intense when you’re listening,” she says suddenly.
“Is that a complaint?”
“No.” Her eyes soften. “It makes me feel like I’m the only person in the room.”
I don’t break eye contact. “You are.”
The words hang there unpolished. True. For a man who builds structures to avoid unpredictability, I’m leaning dangerously far into something I can’t model or forecast.
But I don’t step back.