Page 60 of Out of Control

Oh. My.

There’s a weight to his admission that I’m not certain either of us are ready to address and so I leave it be. I let the silence eat at its edges so that we can be more comfortable with it. Or not be.

“This one here,” I say, the impending turn forcing me to find my voice.

“I know where the Navarro house is,” he murmurs as he turns into the driveway. “Everyone in this town does.”

I nod, knowing that statement has its benefits and its disadvantages. But I don’t put words to what he already knows. To what I feel like he partially resents me for but that I don’t truly understand.

“You sure you don’t want to stay with me?” he asks as if we’re not already sitting in my driveway.

“I do. You know I do.” I smile, suddenly having a mini-freak-out over what happens next. Is this something you talk about on a first date? But is this really considered a first date? No. It’s not. “But . . . if I stay, I’ll never get to the gallery tomorrow.”

“Why’s that? Do you think something might distract you?” he asks as he runs a hand up my thigh. I squirm away from him, knowing if he finds purchase where I want him to, there will be no getting out of this car.

“Very distracting.” I shift and link my fingers with his to stop him. “And if I don’t go to the gallery, then I won’t be ready in time for artmonte-carlo.”

“The art show? Is that the plan?”

“An ambitious one, but one nonetheless.”

“Ambition is never a bad thing. Are you still looking for more pieces?”

“A few, yes. My feature piece for sure.”

“You haven’t found it yet?”

“I have a few in mind but so far no one’s buying what I’m selling.”

“And what are you selling?”

“Space in a well-trafficked area. A smaller than usual commission structure for the gallery. I figure I need to take a smaller cut initially to entice artists while I grow my name and brand.”

“Are you telling them who you are though? Your name? Your family?”

“No. Yes. I don’t know. Whichever one I tell you, you’re going to tell me I’m wrong. If I do use it, then I’m not being true to myself, and if I don’t use it then I’m not leaning on what I was born into. It’s a no-win situation from where I stand and where you judge.”

He falls silent almost as if it’s an acknowledgment of the truth I just levied him with. His hands are on the steering wheel and his thumb’s thrumming a beat. He stares out at the darkness in front of us. “If you could have one piece, what would it be? Your dream piece to showcase?”

My smile is automatic because the answer is that simple. “You wouldn’t know it.”

“Humor me. That way I can pretend to know it when you eventually acquire the rights to show it.”

“Midnight Madness by Mikah Mastroni.”

He raises his eyebrows, starts to say something, and then stops himself. “Midnight Madness. Is this a well-known artist or piece?”

“In the art world, yes. Rumor is that he doesn’t loan pieces out. Hell, he rarely even allows people to see his work. The piece I love—Midnight Madness—is only known because someone snuck a picture of it from a private gallery and posted it—which tells me he will in fact loan a piece out for the right person, price, reason . . . hell if I know.”

“And the painting is good?”

“It’s incredible. It’s moving. It’s . . . everything.”

He nods but doesn’t say anything more as I study him. This man, who has owned my mind for a month.

And now he’s beside me. He’s talking to me. He’s validating my dreams and aspirations. It’s an incredible feeling to have someone like him listen. I know I won’t be able to think about anyone else.

“I might know a little something about that feeling,” he says quietly.