Whirling around, I raced back toward the Baroque wing, shoes squeaking across the marble floor as I flew. I grabbed onto the pillar and rounded into the room before sliding to an abrupt halt.
There she was. My buttercup.
Casually dressed in a long, flowing black coat over skintight jeans, Betty faced the Rembrandt. Her hands were on either side of the frame, and I expected to see her lift it off the wall, but she straightened it instead.
Standing on her tiptoes in cherry-red heels, a wave of ill-timed desire washed over me. Her long, sleek ponytail swished down her spine as she stepped back, tilting her head to admire the placement of the painting on the wall.
I frowned, trying to understand what she was doing. Why wasn’t she taking it? This was her chance.
When she turned and looked over her shoulder. Her eyes betrayed a flicker of surprise before she recognized me under the mustache. A wide grin replaced the frown on her cherry-red lips.
“Betty?” I began.
The rest of her torso turned to face me, and she slipped her freshly manicured hands into her jacket pockets. She was so different from the woman I’d last seen in Canada, and yet it was still Betty, as beautiful as ever.
Her face was made up with a soft blush on her high cheekbones and striking dark eye makeup. This was my New York Betty, a Betty I loved just as much as any other version of her. A sweet smile played on her lips, looking every bit the picture of innocence as she sauntered my way.
I relaxed to match her energy, adopting an air of ease.“Fancy seeing you here,” I drawled.
She snorted.“Seriously, babe…” her eyes rolled.“That mustache? Salvador Dali called, and he wants it back.”
I laughed once, playfully pinching the end and twisting the hairs.“His mustache didn’t curl.”
She playfully rolled her eyes.
I looked from her to the painting on the wall.“Why aren’t you taking it?”
She slid a hand from her pocket, placing it on my chest and picking at the edge of my fake plastic name tag that read‘Craig’. I tried to step back and get an answer out of her before falling victim to her touch, but her nails clawed at my shirt, pinching my skin and holding me still.
“Don’t run away from me,Craig,” she taunted.
My eyes narrowed.“Cameras?”
She giggled.“Clem has them on a loop right now, dear Craig-o. You’re fine.” With little ceremony, she reached up, flicking the tip of my mustache before ripping it off.
I flinched from the sting of it pulling on my real whiskers.
She frowned.“Why’d you have to go and shave your beard? I loved that beard.” She leaned in, tickling my neck with the fake mustache as she whispered,“Especially against my thighs.”
Unable to resist her proximity, I pushed up against her, raising a hand to cup her cheek.“It’ll grow back.”
She looked up at me from beneath her lashes.“It better.”
I snaked my other hand into her coat and around her waist. That’s when I felt it.“Oh,” I murmured. There was a hard, rectangular panel tucked into her pants, resting at the small of her back. A playful smile curved my lips.“What’s this?”
She gave me a sassy blink and a shrug.
“Is that a masterpiece in your trousers, or are you just happy to see me?” I asked.
My cheekiness garnered no reaction. She didn’t reply.
“But what about the Rembrandt?” I gestured at the wall behind her.
She grinned and slid from my arms, her eyes sparkling as she backed away and outstretched her hand.“Walk with me,” she invited,“and I’ll tell you all about it.”
I placed my hand in hers, and she led me from the room, away from our objective. I wanted to protest, but she wasn’t slowing or allowing me the chance.
She dragged me down the empty hall, and I eventually sped up to match her pace. I dropped her grasp and my hand found its way back to the small of her back, cradling the wooden panel beneath her coat and fingering the edge. I was struggling to understand.
