Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 98305 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 492(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 328(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98305 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 492(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 328(@300wpm)
A waiter passes in front of us with champagne, and Olivier sweeps two flutes off the silver tray.
“A toast,” he says, holding one flute out for me.
I accept it gladly and nod for him to continue.
“To art,” he says, holding my gaze and making it perfectly clear that his toast is dripping with innuendo.
“To art,” I repeat before clinking my glass with his.
After my sip, I ask him a question I’m dying to know the answer to. “What will you do with the painting if you win it?”
He shrugs nonchalantly. “I’m not sure. I just purchased a new apartment in Montreal I’ve been meaning to start collecting for. Or maybe I’ll loan it to a museum.”
Oh y’know, no big deal!
I nearly laugh.
“Do you make a habit of bidding on expensive art regularly?”
He smiles. “I make a habit of trying to impress beautiful women. Tonight, it worked out that I got to do both.”
“Who says I was impressed?”
“You’re blushing, Ms. Brighton.”
“Missus,” I say, correcting him.
He makes a sour face. “Ah right, that pesky little title. Does it really mean anything?”
What a loaded question.
I glance down at my ring and adjust it on my finger. A part of me wishes I could flirt with Olivier and see where it ended up. It’s been a long time…too long since I’ve been on a date. I didn’t realize how starved I was for attention until this moment because even though I should leave and find Walt, I don’t want to. I want to soak up this focus from a handsome man who’s making it perfectly clear he finds me attractive as well. How refreshingly simple.
“Do you dance?” Olivier asks me.
I laugh and shake my head adamantly. “No. Dear god, I avoid it at all costs.”
“What about at your wedding? Surely you danced then?”
A sharp pang of sadness surprises me. I shake my head and look away.
“Well then we’ll fix that,” he says, taking my hand and suddenly tugging me toward the dance floor.
“No! I can’t!” I say between bursts of laughter. “I truly can’t. I’m not trying to be demure. I’ll end up stepping on your feet.”
“Then step on my feet,” he says with a shrug. “I can take it.”
After one final sip, he steals my champagne flute from my hand and deposits it on a nearby table along with his. Then, just as smoothly, he captures both of my hands and twirls me out onto the dance floor. I can’t help but continue to laugh. It’s all my nerves bubbling to the surface.
“Oh god. This is going to be a disaster.”
“Follow my lead,” he says with a grin, not the least bit deterred by my lack of expertise. “One hand on my shoulder, the other in my palm. Just like that. You’re light—I can tug you along easily enough.”
He moves across the dance floor so quickly I can barely keep up, but it’s so fun, like a grown-up version of the teacup ride at Disney. We spin and spin and Olivier asks me if I know this song.
It’s vaguely familiar, but I have a poor ear for music.
After I shake my head, he grins.
“It’s a lively version of ‘The Second Waltz’ by Dmitri Shostakovich. One of my favorites.”
“It’s beautiful.”
“Yes, and you’re doing well. I’ve only broken one toe.”
“Oh stop,” I groan, slowing down as if to stop.
He doesn’t let me.
“I’m kidding. You’re a natural.”
The song starts to die down, and there’s a momentary lull on the dance floor as partners split apart and fall away and more take their place.
I step back from Olivier and drop his hand, but he keeps hold of my waist as I look to my left and see Walt cutting through the crowd, walking toward me with confident grace. His face is impossible to read, his mouth in a flat line, his eyes narrowed slightly at the corners. The details about him I’ve become habituated to come back in striking clarity: his sharp cheekbones, square jaw, tall stature, broad shoulders. In his black tuxedo, he’s like a dark cloud covering the sun as he descends upon us.
Olivier doesn’t notice him right away. He’s in the middle of saying something to me when Walt cuts him off.
“Do you mind if I steal my wife?”
My heart does a kick-drum stutter in my chest, and again, I try to move away from Olivier to no avail.
Too slowly, Olivier lets go of me, looks behind him, and then tilts his head back to meet Walt’s gaze. The height difference between them seems like it could be measured in miles at the moment, and it has everything to do with Walt’s surly expression.
“Ah, of course,” Olivier says with confident ease. “I was beginning to imagine you didn’t exist.”
Walt frowns, and a fissure of embarrassment passes through me. I blush as if I’ve done something wrong, and maybe I have. Maybe I shouldn’t have indulged in Olivier’s attention for this long. Maybe I should have walked away from him at the start. It’s too late to go back now though.