He might owe all his teachers an apology.
Tinker marveled at the transformation that had happened in the time it’d taken him to drive Olivia home, swing by his place to change into slacks and a dress shirt, and return to the school.
Students, dressed in black pants or skirts and white shirts, stood just inside the main entrance and handed out programs. Artwork lined the hall and students and parents milled around each piece. A couple of adults with clipboards jotted notes as they looked at each piece.
He made his way to the atrium, which was also lined with artwork. An X-shaped partition divided the space into quarters.
Abby had changed into a deep blue dress that accentuated the dip of her waist and showed off her shapely legs to their full effect.
Once more he had the thought: he was fucked.
She was talking to a couple of people looking at a large sculpture on a tall square pedestal. She must have felt his stare, because she looked up, caught sight of him, and smiled. Excusing herself, she walked over to him.
“You look nice,” she said.
He took the opportunity to lean down and kiss her cheek. It wasn’t nearly enough but would have to do for where they were. “Thanks. I clean up good. You look really nice as well.”
She smiled. “Thank you. And thank you for taking Olivia home as well. I thought about calling a rideshare for her but wasn’t comfortable with it.”
“It’s no problem.” He dropped his voice. “Don’t suppose you have time to sneak off to the eraser room?”
She laughed. “No, sorry.”
“Damn. It was worth a shot.”
A trio of people with clipboards stood in front of one of the paintings. “Who are they?” he asked.
“Art college scouts,” she said.
“Really?”
“Yeah. It’s a big deal for the seniors.” She pointed to a small group of older students along the wall of the atrium, wringing their hands, and craning their necks to try to see what the scouts were writing.
“One of them the artist?” he asked.
“The girl with the long hair in the polka-dot dress. She’s very talented. One of the scouts is from the Rhode Island School of Design. There’s another one here from the Royal College of Art in London, but I haven’t told any of the kids that—they’d freak out too much.”
“Wow. And these are your students?”
“Yeah. They are.” She said it softly, the pride evident in her voice.
“Where did you go to art school?” he asked.
“I went to NYU Institute of Fine Arts,” she said. “But for art history and restoration, not art itself.”
“Why not art itself?”
“I’m not that good.”
He raised an eyebrow. “I find that hard to believe.”
“Oh, believe it. Don’t get me wrong, I can draw and paint and sculpt. I’m technically very good. But artistically, I suck.”
“I don’t understand.”
She pulled him off to the side, allowing people access to the pictures they’d been standing in front of. “Okay. You said you make custom motorcycles.”
“Yeah, but that’s not the same as…this.” He gestured to the artwork around him.
