I’m mesmerized.
I don’t think I’ve touched a paint brush since the required middle school art class I limped through, but you can’t love history as passionately as I do without letting art slip into your heart. At least, I don’t think so.
Almost forgetting where I am, breath held, I step closer, examining the nearest painting; a canyon landscape tinted unexpectedly in greens beneath a purply sunset of swirling, windy clouds so full of motion that I can feel the storm-charged energy lifting the hairs at the back of my neck.
A slight shuffle of movement to my right makes me look up to see Tristan watching me intently. I could almost imagine anxiously.
“Are these yours?” Even though I already know the answer, I need confirmation in the face of this stunning discovery.
He nods, rolling one shoulder in a careless shrug, but that intensity lingering in his eyes as he watches me move to the next—the dark silhouette of a man standing in an amber puddle of streetlight in a nighttime cityscape—gives away the attempt at nonchalance for what it is.
“Tristan,” his name comes out sounding breathy and hoarse, but I can’t pull away enough attention from the paintings to care. “These are incredible.”
In amazed silence, I step to the side to take in the next, the beautiful yet sad face of a woman with a hard, downturned mouth, painted in all greys and browns except for the vivid green of her kind, haunted eyes. The emotion captured there is so staggering that I feel an answering tug of grief stir in mychest.
“You’re an arts major then?” I glance back up at him, only to instantly realize I’ve said the wrong thing as I catch sight of the suddenly closed-off, defensive expression on his face.
For a short, slim man, Tristan has never seemed small before this moment. Now, he’s sort of caved in on himself, his face hardening as his mouth sets into an expression startlingly like the one of the woman in the painting at my side for a second.
“Nope,” the familiar bounce is there in his voice, his grin back in place, but for once, it looks forced. “Just a barista.”
I open my mouth to tell him he’s notjust anything, only to let it fall shut before the words can slip out, afraid they are too much. Too personal. And that they might corroborate his implication thatjustbeing a barista is somehow inadequate.
He gives another dismissive shrug, and I realize a moment too late how he might interpret my silence. Before I have a chance to backpedal and try to fix it, he’s stepping toward the door, glancing back over his shoulder to see if I’m following.
“You ready to go?”
He’s put a sweatshirt on and is tugging a lightweight faux leather jacket over it. It’s got to be in the low thirties outside, but I feel like I’ve already messed up—first with my assumption about him and his art, second with my silence, and so, afraid of putting my foot in my mouth again if I say anything about worrying he’ll be cold, I just follow him out the door, into the smarting wall of chilled air that meets us the moment we’re through.
The restaurant isn’t far from our building, only a few blocks, but the walk is enough for the awkwardness of that moment back at Tristan’s place to fade. So far, he’s spent most of the time with his face tipped up toward the darkening sky, scanning the spots where clouds are gathering to blot out the stars even as they start to appear.
I can’t help letting myself linger on the sight of him like this—his eyes wide, lips curved into a spontaneous smile. Nothing about this new side to him is contradictory to the flirty, knowing man I met in the coffee shop. Now, he’s only softer, his hard edges temporarily smoothed away.
Jesus, how has he become even more intoxicating than ever?
“You think the weather forecast’s right and it’s really gonna snow tonight?”
I almost jump at the sound of his voice. Thank god he’s still looking up at the sky, otherwise he’d have caught me staring. Hard.
“It feels like it.” Not for the first time, my eyes drift over his insufficient jacket.
A slight shiver runs through him, one I’d probably have missed if I weren’t watching him so closely. I open my mouth to offer him my coat, and when he speaks at the same moment, I only just pull back my own words in time, saving myself from the awkwardness of a simultaneous blurt.
“I thought March was like, spring up here?” He turns toward me, lifting his pierced eyebrow in an adorably questioning gesture. “And isn’t Seattle supposed to be all about rain, not snow?”
“Usually yes. To both. But we do get at least one decent snow most years. This year it’s just late, I guess.”
“I hope it does snow.” He grins at me, so eager and excitedthat not even my nerves can stop me from grinning back.
“You like snow?”
“In pictures? Yeah, I totally love it, which is why I’m really hoping I’ll actually get to see it, you know?”
“It didn’t snow where you moved from?”
He shakes his head. “Nah. I came up here from southeastern Cali, and before that I lived in Arizona, Texas, places like that. I’ve only seen snow like once or twice, and it was all wet and soppy. Didn’t last more than an hour or two.”
“What made you pick Seattle now?”
