Chapter 9
TREASURE THE MOMENT (CLEO)
This isn’t my first time visiting The Met, but coming here with Holden feels like seeing it through fresh eyes.
“Fair warning, I know jack about art,” he says as we climb the grand stairs to enter.
“You don’t need to. I’ll burn your ear off anyway.” I smile sweetly.
My heart flutters as he groans.
God, it’s easy to forget we’re pressed for time and juggling a priceless mystery artifact.
There’s something about walking into this temple to human creativity that makes me feel like anything is possible.
Yes, it’s a gorgeous building, all soaring columns and arches, but it’s also something else. The world makes more sense when I can bask in my one true love.
“Ohhh, yesss. We have to see the Egyptian display.” I grab his arm and drag him the second I see the sign. I try not to notice the hard, unrelenting muscle under my fingers.
Seeing him shirtless with his hair tossed around this morning was a whole vibe.
Definitely not the daddy vibe I need.
I knew he worked out like he’s preparing for a rabid zombie apocalypse. PopPop kept him around for a reason, after all. He made him my problem for a reason.
But after watching him stuffing his face with breakfast and still looking hot…
Holy hell.
No man should get to look like a Michelangelo sculpture, especially not when they come with such an attitude.
Not when this gruff, unsmiling brute exists to make my life complicated.
Except I’m the idiot complicating it more with my brain stuck on half-naked Holden.
Hard ridges of deadly muscle.
The lethal V pointing to his low-slung pants like an obscene arrow.
The rough dusting of dark hair on his chest, turning him pure animal. I’m not sure why but you don’t see it much with guys my age.
He’s exotic and older and so, so bad for me.
A forbidden fruit bursting with rattlesnake venom. One bite would drop me to the floor.
But it’s my muse, I think. Yes, let’s blame her.
Awful or not, Holden begs to be drawn—and maybe as a man, for once, and not a silly caricature. There’s a lot to capture, from his stacked, towering muscle to the brooding, deep shadows in his strange sad eyes.
I’ve always adored playing with lighting, and he’s a whole mountain range. Visually fascinating, right down to the way the sunlight scatters across his savage hills and untamed valleys.
I noticed it the second I woke up, after I got over the shock of sleeping next to him.
We won’t even dwell on that. But there he was, packed against that pillow, the first hint of sun splashed across his washboard abs like a golden ribbon.
I’d use charcoal to capture that, I think, smudging it with my fingers. A little wild shadowing around the edges. He’s not clean enough for pencil.
He’s dirty and smeared and real. Never quite perfect when you look directly at him, which you don’t because he’s as blinding as a Phoenix afternoon.
“Egypt,” Holden growls, tossing me a look.
I jerk my head away so he doesn’t see me flushed, trapped in my own head.
“Um, yeah. There’s five thousand years of art here. Might as well work backwards.”
“Got any Picasso paintings here?”
I glare at him, the heat leaving my face. “Is he the only artist you know?”
“Kit did a project on him a couple months ago. Didn’t mind watching the documentary. I’ve also seen a lot of Van Gogh stuff. Your grandfather dropped a ton of names I can’t remember over the years.”
“Oh my God, Boomer.” I hide my face.
He chuckles.
“Like I said, not my wheelhouse.” He takes my arm and steers me away from a large group of tourists with their phones out, talking loudly and barely paying attention to running me over. “This is,” he growls.
Oh, touché.
“You’ve made your point. Let’s start with the basics, though.”
We head into the Egyptian exhibition first. It’s this cool spread of art recovered from a sunken city on the coast. The elegant statues of glaring gods and glittering jewelry looks like it was just finished yesterday.
I’m in awe, stopping to read every tiny screen and description, soaking it in. Holden actually reads it with me. He’s more patient than I expected.
“No mummies, then? When you said Egypt, I expected mummies,” he grumbles.
I laugh. “This is a lot of stuff from the second and third century. By then, they were under Roman rule and the mummies got more low-key. They still did it, but not quite as grand as it was during the kingdoms.”
“Disappointing. The good things never last, I suppose. At least it’s not all paintings. Nice to have some variety,” he says as we move along, wary of the time constraints.
“Art isn’t just paintings, especially when it’s ancient.”
“If you say so. Music is music to me.” He shrugs his enormous shoulders.
“Music is art, too. You’re a smart guy and you can open your mind a little. Art isn’t just—” I search for the right word, unsure why I’m bubbling with nerves again, the feeling he brings out so effortlessly.
But it’s passion, too.
I’ve had a few occasions where I’ve gotten so worked up talking about art I actually cry. Not today. I’m not about to cry in front of Holden fucking Verity.
After yesterday, not again.
“Take your time,” he says.
“It’s all about human expression, Holden. And people can express themselves in so many ways, whether it’s with words or paintings or music or just stringing random junk around the house together because it means something. Have you ever just shut down and let yourself feel?”
He stares at me blankly. No, of course not.
“Well, that’s art. However we choose to bottle up the human experience and share it with the world.”
“Can’t argue with that.” His mouth turns up. “Is that what you do, Nile? Capture your experience?”
“If you’re asking whether I try to translate my experience through art, then yes. Even the commercial stuff I sell on the side for money, I try to make it meaningful. That’s all we really have. Any artist who doesn’t put their heart into it will be replaced by AI.”
“AI. All it’s done is give me a lot to worry about whenever Kit scrolls across another video with talking fruit. Cannot believe the shit they do with that.” His mouth curls with disgust.
I laugh.
We’re moving into the modern and contemporary art section now. He pauses in front of a Wifredo Lam painting, Goddess with Foliage.
“What experience is this? Looks like somebody jumbled up a fruit basket with a naked lady. Better than the AI slop, at least.” That tiny smile deepens as he looks at me.
“That’s the whole idea.” Snickering, I shake my head.
At first glance, the painting looks like a mess of shapes. Look closer, and it’s a naked woman with oddly different breasts, her features materializing. There are leaves like butterflies floating around her.
He stares as I launch into what I remember about this one, explaining the different elements. How Cuban culture inspired Lam and produced these stunning dreamlike visuals.
Holden listens patiently, eyeballing the painting like he’s trying to make sense of it.
“At the end of the day, it’s all about how the viewer interprets the art,” I finish. “If you don’t connect with this painting or artist or style, that’s okay. There’s no wrong answer.”
“You mean I don’t need to change my opinion on modern art? Lucky me.”
“What is your opinion?” I bite back a smile because I’m sure I already know.
He shrugs. “Too much effort to figure it out. I’m a meat and potatoes kind of guy with my art. Show me something pretty I can figure out without needing a master’s degree.”
“You should try to understand it, but that’s different.” I try not to laugh. “But hey, you’ve got your preferences, and I’ve got mine. That’s what I love about this stuff.”
“When will we see your stuff here?”
I gasp. “Not in this lifetime!”
“I mean it, woman.” His eyes flash and my face heats. “What are you up to now? That’s what you’re doing, right? Art? You must have a style, some big project in the works.”
There’s a different edge to his voice now. Light, still teasing, but genuinely curious. He wants to know what I do.
Oh boy.
A wave of uncertainty washes over me again, that cramp I get whenever I think about the future. Or what the hell I’m going to do with it if the egg brings me some giant windfall.
I don’t have a plan beyond keep on keeping on.
I haven’t committed to anything.
Yes, I want to double down on my art career and push myself creatively, but I haven’t figured out what that looks like.
Holden stays silent, waiting for an answer.
I appreciate the way he gives me space to think.
But hey, what’s the harm in the truth?
“I don’t know yet,” I whisper. “I’ve been working on a few things. If I don’t have to grind for rent money, that’ll be a big help. I can focus on the stuff that’s near and dear to my heart.”
“Can I see?”
Oh God. I freeze.
“Cleo, I’m serious.” His gaze intensifies, making me feel small.
“You won’t laugh?”
“Laugh?” His eyebrows dart up. “Never.”
Weirdly, I trust him.
Art that hasn’t gone public feels so personal. A little detached but also too intimate, like sending an emotional nude.
If someone doesn’t like it, if they politely turn their nose up, it’s hard not to get wrecked. When it’s your big, expressive baby in progress, every critique feels like being dragged over a cactus patch, no matter how well intended.
I pull my phone from my bag. “I’ve got a few photos I can show you.”
We sit down on a bench.
I feel his body heat, all radiating warmth and oddly safe.
Luckily, I saved them in their own folder, so they’re easy to find on my cloud gallery. I pass my phone to Holden so he can scroll through it.
It’s a mess of old art that stretches back years. A few detailed charcoal sketches from college, my early oil paintings, a canvas with abstract ship-shaped lights disappearing into an infernal darkness.
The last one captures his eyes the longest. He doesn’t swipe it away with his thumb.
“You don’t like it, I’m sure. Too modern,” I whisper.