Page 22 of Enzo

I figure it would be nice to look at these paintings with someone like him, who probably knows more about these things than I could ever hope to. I’m still gawking at the side of his face. If I could see it properly, I'm sure he'd raise an eyebrow or two.

After a long pause, he answers, “No.”

“No?” My heart sinks.

“No I wouldn't mind if you walked with me.”

“Oh!” I poke him again, in the arm, because I feel ridiculously happy again. “Are you sure?” I need to double-check.

“No. I think I don't mind.”

“You think you don't mind? Then you probably do mind.”

“No,” he says quickly, firmly. “I don't.”

“Oh! Good. And thank you.”

His lips twitch, but he says nothing. We walk around some more looking at the next few paintings. But I'm not concentrating on the paintings. I’m watching a waitress who’s hovering close by with a tray of new canapés. These little morsels of divine bliss are so delumptious, and they make me so insanely happy, but they don't fill me up.

I still want some more.

“Would you mind holding this for me, please?”

I hand him my clutch bag because while I can keep it hugged to my side with one arm, how do I eat, especially now that I don't have a small table?

“Could you take this as well?” I hand over my mask.

He looks at me, and tilts his head. I'm so glad I can see his eyes otherwise I'd be reacting blind to him. His gaze flits all over my face.

“You're staring at me.”

“You took your mask off.”

“I have to eat. I'm getting ready.”

“For what?”

I cock my head to the right. “Do you see those canapés? New batch. Never been offered before, as far as I can tell.”

“You’ve been collating info?”

I wince. “Is it so obvious?”

He smiles this time, full and wide. He has nice teeth. He probably thinks I'm greedy, and uncouth and have no manners. No etiquette.

Do I care?

I do not.

When the waitress comes over to me—I'm not surprised that she has, given the amount of times I've eyeballed her—I grab a few napkins and, newly freed from my clutch and mask, pick four delicious-looking bites and place them on my napkin.

“You’re not having any?” I ask Mysterious Man when I find him watching me. His lips are slightly curled up at the corners, like he finds this entertaining.

“I’m saving myself for dinner.”

“Oh, I intend to have dinner, too.”

I see a waiter wandering by with a tray of champagne glasses, and my mind explodes at the possibilities.