I nod, staring forward. “It’s almost too intrusive though, like pieces of their souls were stolen and put on canvas. I can feel what each individual was carrying with them, all the weight of their life that they thought was invisible.” I take a sip.
Her brow pops up. “You’re serious.”
“Of course. I would’ve purchased the entire collection if someone hadn’t beaten me to it.”
“That’s a shame,” she offers, almost like it’s a condolence.
“It’s a tragedy. I’m very bitter about it.” I say it like I mean it—because I do.
“I’m partial to this collection as well,” she admits, and her expression shifts for just a second before she smooths it back into place.
I clink my glass against hers. “Guess that means you have excellent taste.”
“Or maybe you do.” She grins.
This woman is not flirting. She’s not nervous or trying to impress me.
“What do you see when you look at these paintings?” I ask, not wanting this conversation to end.
She considers the question, actually takes her time with it. “Life lived. I don’t see people in vulnerable states. I see emotions in color. Anyone can paint a face, but the eyes are where the truth lies.”
I tilt my head because this woman just handed me more depth in minutes than I’ve gotten from anyone in months.
“I think the best art evokes emotion and tells a story without words.” I pause. “There’s beauty in that, but I’d also argue some things are universally beautiful and don’t need interpretation. Like sunsets and the ocean.” I glance down at myself. “A man in a well-tailored suit.”
“Humble.” She rolls her eyes.
“Always.” I grin and extend my hand. “I’m Louis.”
She takes it. Her grip is firm, and her skin is warm, and I hold on longer than I should.
“Addison.”
“Nice to meet you.” I release her hand, raise my glass, and she taps hers against it.
I’m quiet for a moment, studying her. She’s comfortable in the silence, like she has absolutely nothing to prove to me.
“What?” she finally asks.
“Nothing.” I shake my head. “I wasn’t expecting to have the most interesting conversation of my year tonight.”
She relaxes, just barely. “Life is full of surprises.”
“It certainly is.” I smile, and it’s not the one I use for cameras or diplomats. This one just happens. “I have a feeling you’re full of them.”
“Oh, you have no idea.”
“Where are you from?” she asks.
“Guess,” I offer.
“The UK?”
I’m genuinely offended. “I’m not British.”
“Youkindasound British.”
“The country I’m from has been speaking French since the thirteenth century. We’re Mediterranean.” I fiddle with my cuff like she insulted my entire bloodline. “The British wish they sounded this good.”
