We move to the next painting in silence—The Entombment of Christ.
“And how would you describe this one?” he asks, and I think I hear genuine curiosity in his voice. It’s a temptation I can’t ignore—having someone ask me to explain art history to them is like catnip.
“It’s about weight, about the physical reality of death. Look at how the figures strain to hold Christ's body, how heavy he is."
“So much of his paintings focus on the body, in grounding even the most transcendent of moments in the flesh,” Alexander says. A prickle runs over my skin, my heart beating hard at what feels like a genuine connection… not just over our physical attraction, but over the most important thing in my life.
“The divine doesn’t feel intangible here,” he continues. “It feels physical. Real. Human.”
“I think our human moments are the most sacred.” I shrug lightly. “When we’re our true selves and not performing for others. When we’re present, even in grief or heaviness.”
Something shifts in his expression. I feel the weight of his eyes on me; it’s own kind of heaviness. My blood feels likeit’s rushing through my veins, hot and demanding. My breath catches as we move further down the exhibition and he almost brushes against me, not quite making contact, but close enough that I could imagine he did.
As we make our way through the paintings, the conversation flows like we've been doing this for years, like we speak the same language. I haven’t had a conversation like this with a man on a personal level in… God, I can’t even remember how long. I don’t want it to end, and that frightens me.
When we reach the end, he looks at me. “Can I buy you a coffee, Mara Winslow?” he asks, that light smile on just the corners of his mouth. "There's a café on the second floor. Terrible coffee, but the view of the courtyard is worth it."
I laugh at that; I can’t help it. "You're a museum donor, and you're admitting the coffee is terrible?"
"I'm a donor because I love art, not because I have any illusions about the museum café’s quality." He gestures toward the exit. "Shall we?"
The café is nearly empty, the afternoon light streaming through the tall windows overlooking the courtyard. He was right—the coffee is mediocre at best. But I’m on a high from the exhibition, and the conversation, and I don’t care.
He sips his coffee as if it were a delicacy, studying me in the light. “So,” he says. “It’s been a long time since I was in Manhattan. "What's it like being an art dealer in the city that never sleeps?"
"Exhausting. Exhilarating. Competitive." I wrap my hands around my cup. "Everyone wants to be the one who discovers the next big thing or authenticates the lost masterpiece, who makes the biggest deals."
“Is that what you want?”
“I just want to be good at what I do,” I admit. “I want my clients to be satisfied. I love chasing hard-to-find pieces, I canadmit that. But I want my gallery to be successful. I love the rush of closing a deal or finding the perfect artist to showcase, but I know the rush can’t sustain us forever. Eventually, I’m going to want to know that we can bring in enough to remain open, make me financially comfortable and pay my employees well on a regular basis, not just riding a windfall and hoping the next one comes.”
He observes me, curiosity in his eyes. “So you want control.”
"I want to know that I can trust my own judgment."
“Do you feel as if you can?” Those icy eyes are still on me, and I feel as if there’s something more to this question that he’s not asking.
I shrug. “Sometimes.” I take a sip of the terrible coffee. "But sometimes expertise and a gut feeling are at a crossroads, and you have to decide which one to follow. It can be a hard decision. Especially when other people are reliant on you.”
He nods. "What do you do in those moments?"
“Usually fall back on my expertise. I’d like to be better at following my gut.”
"Faith requires you to go to the edge," Alexander says calmly. "To be willing to sacrifice everything."
“That’s a difficult kind of faith.”
Those piercing eyes meet mine. "Anything worth believing in requires you to risk everything."
There's a slightly dangerous edge to his voice, and I feel my pulse leap. That fantasy flashes back into my head; the gloved hand on my throat, his mouth close to mine, and I reach for my coffee, taking a quick sip. “I’d like to be less risk-averse,” I say with a laugh. “I was when there wasn’t so much on the line. Now taking risks feels much more dangerous.”
“There’s a thrill in danger, though, isn’t there?”
“Of course.” I smirk. “That’s what makes it so intoxicating.”
The light outside has started to soften, I realize. The afternoon has slipped away, and I realize with a start that we've been together for over two hours. It feels like it’s been minutes.
“I should head back.” I reach for my phone to text the driver. “I don’t want to leave my friend for too long; I’m here to see her. It’d be rude to stay out too late.”
