Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 91887 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 459(@200wpm)___ 368(@250wpm)___ 306(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91887 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 459(@200wpm)___ 368(@250wpm)___ 306(@300wpm)
“What are you thinking of having?” I ask, finally looking down at the menu.
Jo scans hers thoughtfully. “The duck confit sounds amazing, but so does the mushroom in red wine. Decisions, decisions.” She tilts her head, biting her lip. “What about you?”
“I was going to go with rib-eye steak, rare. Classic. But maybe I should follow your lead and be more adventurous?”
Her eyes flick up, mischievous. “You’d let me choose for you?”
“Absolutely,” I reply smoothly. “After all, my real meal comes later tonight… in bed. I’m starving for the taste of you.”
She turns an intoxicating red, and I have to fight the urge to pay off the waiter, reach across the table, grab her, and throw her on top of it. Instead of my caveman instincts, I lean forward and brush a stray lock of hair from her face. Her eyes gleam at my touch.
The waiter comes back to take our orders and then he produces a bottle of wine and pours us each a glassful before hurrying away again.
“I can’t believe you tried to argue that the Mona Lisa is overrated,” Jo says after a sip of her wine.
“I didn’t argue it’s overrated,” I correct. “I simply observed that it’s small. I imagined it bigger.”
“It’s intimate,” she counters.
“Half the mystic is gone thanks to the bulletproof glass.”
“That’s not her fault.”
I take a sip of wine. “You’re very protective.”
“She’s endured five centuries of men underestimating her,” Jo says lightly. “I can relate.”
My mouth curves. “You think I underestimate you?”
“I think most people underestimate me,” she says. “But I’m not complaining. I like playing the wallflower.”
I nearly choke on my wine. “That’s not a word I would use to describe you.”
She leans back. “Yeah? How would you describe me?”
“Electric live wire comes to mind.”
“I don’t know about live wires,” she says, folding her hands on the table. “But I definitely got the impression that you walked into the Louvre Museum with me expecting to be bored.”
“True. I expected to endure it,” I admit. “I do appreciate fine art, but I don’t make a habit of spending full days in galleries. But…”
“But?”
“But then you started explaining the geometry of The Last Supper like you were unveiling state secrets.”
Her lips twitch. “You mean, you were actually listening.”
“I always listen to live wires.”
She studies me over the rim of her glass. “Come on, admit it. You were skeptical.”
“I was testing you.”
Her eyes narrow playfully. “Testing me,” she repeats.
“Yes.”
“For what exactly?”
“Depth.”
She laughs outright at that. “You’re unbelievable.”
“I like to know who I’m investing my time in.”
“This isn’t a merger, Axel.”
“Perhaps not in the strictest sense of the word,” I agree quietly.
The words shift something between us, softens it. She glances down, then back up, her smile gentler now.
“My favorite exhibition was Caravaggio,” she says, redirecting. “The drama of it. The shadows.”
“You just like anything that looks mildly dangerous.”
“And you don’t?” she challenges me.
I lean back. “I prefer controlled risk.”
“That explains your art preferences.”
“I also noticed you spent an indecent amount of time staring at that sculpture in the Greek wing,” I say.
Her lips press together to hide a grin. “Which one?” she says, feigning innocence.
“The one with the very impressive marble anatomy.”
She chokes on her wine. “I was studying the craftsmanship.”
“Of course you were.”
“It was… accurate.”
I feel a reluctant smile tug at my mouth. “You nearly walked into a column because you were so distracted.”
“I did not nearly walk into a column.”
“You did. I had to steer you away from it.”
Her gaze flicks to my hand on the table. “You grabbed my waist.”
“It was a public safety measure.”
Her voice lowers. “It lingered.”
I don’t look away. “Did it?”
“Yes.”
A beat passes, the moment charged yet quiet, until the waiter reappears with our meals, breaking the moment. Our plates are set down with the flamboyant flourish of a five-star restaurant. Jo picks up her fork, but she doesn’t eat immediately.
“You know what surprised me the most today?”
“What?”
“You.”
“That’s vague.”
“You didn’t rush me,” she says. “Most people do in museums. They skim. They photograph. They move on.”
“I don’t skim.”
“No,” she says softly. “You analyze. You view art differently from how I do, but you still want to take it in. You stand there until you understand the structure.”
“I like systems.”
“I know.”
“And you,” I reply. “Don’t look at the structure first. You look at the intention.”
Her smile deepens at that, slow and deliberate. “You’re getting better at this.”
“At what?”
“Admitting you enjoyed yourself.”
I cut into my steak. “I enjoyed parts of it.”
“Which parts?”
I meet her eyes. “You.”
Her fork pauses in mid-air. The air between us tightens again, full of awareness. She looks down briefly, then takes a sip of wine to steady herself.
“You would have enjoyed it more if you wore more comfortable shoes,” Jo notes.
“I was wearing comfortable shoes.”
She smirks. “Polished leather brogues don’t get to call themselves ‘comfortable’.”
“I survived.”
“Barely. You winced on the marble stairs.”