Wyatt actually hesitates, which I’m tempted to read too far into. But then he nods, says, “Of course,” and passes me an apologetic glance before the pencil skirt leads him away. I watch the social climbers envelop him into their nest like magpies who’ve found something shiny.
I can’t keep staring at this one painting all night, no matter how violent it is, so I make myself wander. The rest of Carolina’s work is similar, all variations on a homicidal theme. I’m starting to wish I knew this girl, because she seems weird and I like that.
I’m examining another intensely morbid piece when someone steps up beside me, close enough that I can smell their cedarwood cologne. I all but assume it’s Wyatt, have already opened my mouth to make a snarky comment about roadkill—only it isn’t Wyatt at all.
“Can you imagine hanging this in your dining room?” the man says, nodding toward the canvas. “It’d certainly be a conversation starter.”
I stare at him for a moment, trying to figure out if he’s someone I’m supposed to recognize on sight. Probably. Feels like this place is full of Big Deals.
“I’m not inviting anyone over who doesn’t find possum appetizing,” I say. “I have standards.”
It earns a laugh, at least. I examine this newcomer, trying to place him. He’s dressed as if he just came from a board meeting. Maybe he’s an agent or something?
“I don’t think I’ve seen you around before,” the guy says, shifting away from the painting—toward me. As if I were the art. “I can’t say I have a knack for faces, but I’d remember yours.”
Heat flushes up the back of my neck fast and I glance away,toward the canvas, hoping the fall of my hair might hide the color in my cheeks. Maybe I’m not used to being flirted with. Or maybe it’s just the venue and the guy. I’m not used to guys dressed likethatflirting with me.
“I’m new in town,” I say, and finally wrangle my nerves enough to look back at him. “I’m studying at Parker.”
Both his brows go up. “Ah. Excellent program. What field?”
“Photography.”
“I’ll have to be on the lookout for your first gallery opening,” he says. Those pale eyes of his are twinkling. My lord, he’s good.
I’m tempted to wrap my arms around my stomach, a reflexive, insecure gesture that would say far more about me than I want to confess. I have to concentrate hard on keeping my arms loose and lax at my sides. “Maybe. We’ll see. New York standards are pretty high.”
“Of course they are. But you got into Parker, so you clearly have what it takes.” His smile widens, showing teeth. “I’m so sorry, I forgot my manners. I’m Henrik Andersson.”
“Ely Cohen.”
We shake hands, and his lingers on mine just a beat too long before finally falling away. “So, Ely Cohen,” Henrik says, “perhaps you’ll let me take you out for a drink sometime. You can show me your portfolio.”
He’s standing there, smiling at me and waiting for an answer while I try to figure out whether he’s joking. And, if he isn’t, whether I should say yes. I don’t know this man. He’s good-looking enough that he’s probably a secret serial killer. On the other hand, escaping a vicious serial killer would be great inspiration for a photo collection.
I’m still trying to figure out how to respond when a hand brushes my shoulder; I turn to find Wyatt there, a pair of seltzers in hand. “Hey,” he says, passing me one. “They had mango flavor.”
It’s somewhat gratifying to see someone as clean-cut and put together as Henrik Andersson on the back foot. Both his eyebrows have gone up, his body language immediately closing off as he takes a step away from me, putting a more collegial distance between us. “Wyatt Cole,” he says. “What a surprise. I haven’t seen you at one of these in a while.”
“Henrik,” Wyatt says, smiling as easily as ever. “I try to see other human faces from time to time. I usually regret it.”
Henrik laughs even as Wyatt’s expression remains perfectly mild and unchanged. “Is Ely one of your students?”
“No. I wish I could take credit for her talent, but…”
I cover my own raised brows with a quick sip of mango seltzer.No? So he doesn’t consider me his student anymore? What does that mean?
“A commendation from Wyatt Cole is as good as gold these days,” Henrik tells me with a tiny nod. “Like I said, I’ll be on the lookout for your next show. It was nice to meet you, Ely. Wyatt, I’ll see you around, I’m sure….”
He wanders off, leaving me standing there next to Wyatt, still trying to decide what I’m supposed to take away from the whole interaction. Because it kind of feels like Wyatt just cockblocked this guy.
Not his student.
Shut up, brain.
“Soooo,” I say to fill the silence with something, anything. “Who was that?”
Wyatt lifts his seltzer cup, and I obediently clink mine with his in a mock toast. “That,” he says, “was Henrik Andersson. He’s a curator at PS1.”
