Page 102 of Out of Control

“What are we . . .”

“Taking some time out to enjoy what you love.”

“What you love too,” I whisper.

His eyes meet mine, and I love the lopsided smile that graces his lips followed by the subtlest of nods. “That I love too.”

I’ll get him to not be embarrassed by it yet. I’ll get him to not feel the stain those bullies left on him all those years ago.

I reach over and squeeze his hand. “I don’t even know what to say.” Excitement rushes through me. The revered pieces rumored to be kept here, that this mysterious, private owner has procured, is incredible. And a chance to gain entrance to see them is incredibly rare.

Kings. Presidents. Prime Ministers.

“You don’t need to say anything. Maybe it’ll inspire you to decide on a name for that gallery yet.”

I roll my eyes. “Perhaps. But . . . Ollie, how did you get access to this . . .?”

“It’s nice to know that the Sofia Navarro, the woman who has the world at her fingertips, can actually be surprised,” he says as I lean forward and press my lips to his.

And you, Oliver Rossi, are the biggest surprise of all.

I’m awed the minute we walk into the private reception area. There’s a docent waiting, dressed in all black except for the vibrant pink frames of her glasses, with a few pieces of paperwork for us to sign, one of which is a nondisclosure agreement.

No wonder this place is shrouded in such mystery.

“I have so many questions,” I murmur against his ear as we take an elevator to the next floor.

“They’ll all be answered. I promise.” He brings our linked fingers to his mouth and kisses the back of my hand.

And when the doors open, when the docent ushers us out, my eyes and art-loving heart are filled with the most incredible sights.

We’re given a guided tour of each remarkable, awe-inspiring piece. We’re gifted with the supposed stories behind them. The history of how said pieces came into the collector’s possession.

The collection has been curated from new artists and from the classics. There’s no rhyme or reason to how they were selected other than they were liked by the collector and no expense was spared for he or she to acquire them.

I’m in awe at every one and am even more impressed at the questions Rossi asks and the depth to those questions.

I think of the little boy poring over art books in secret. The dates and locations handwritten to some of the pictures in the ones in his house. And I love that I now know the deeper story behind them. That he doesn’t feel the need to hide from me. That he opened up to me.

“What?” he asks when I study his profile while he contemplates the impressionist piece in front of us.

“I’m just trying to figure you out,” I say.

“I assumed that already happened a long time ago.” He flashes a smile and pulls me against him by his arm around my shoulders to press a kiss against my head.

“It did. Tell me about the dates in your art books at home. Your nonna’s books.”

He pauses. I can feel his body stiffen and his fingers in mine tense. It’s not easy to erase a lifetime of hiding something. I wait for him to brush off the question like he has in the past, but am overcome when he keeps his lips on my scalp and whispers. “Those dates. Those places. They were my own little personal fuck you to everyone who told me I couldn’t like it. The bullies. My babbo.” He chuckles and twirls me out playfully before pulling me back into him. “Guess that last one seems a little outdated now, doesn’t it?” A sharp smile. Another brush of his lips against mine.

“Isn’t that what life is though? Think one thing only to find out it’s so very different once you stop and hear it for yourself?” It seems we’ve both been doing a lot of that lately.

Me with my family.

Him with his family. With his original misperceptions of who I was and who I really am.

“Look at us,” he says and winks.

“Look at us,” I repeat.