Page 52 of The Bright Side of Brooding
“Not at all. I did wonder how you pulled off all the details so completely—the cab’s timing and everything. Plus, me joining the trip was so last minute, I’m still amazed you got me a ticket. But not controlling or weird, for sure.” I gave him a sideways smile.
He shook his head, just barely. “Good.”
We crossed the bridge, then slipped down the walk on the far side of the river until we came to the museum.
“What made you want to come here? I’d peg you for an Imperial War Museum guy.”
“My first visit, I spent half a day there. This one was my grandmother’s favorite. She was an art history buff and traveled to all the famous museums of Europe when she was younger. One of the last trips she made, she went to the Tate Modern, fairly reluctantly, and fell in love with it.”
Of all the things I’d expected, that wasn’t it. I needed to learn the lesson that Nick would likely always surprise me.
He inspected me, then chuckled low. “Why do you look surprised?”
I shook my head. “You keep surprising me. I never imagined you’d be so…”
He squinted, waiting.
“Interested in art, I guess. But then I say that, and I think of your letters.” Just mentioning the letters made my stomach flip. “I should probably stop assuming things about you.”
One side of his perfect mouth pulled up just barely. “You expect me to be a meathead soldier?”
I laughed, a little of the discomfort at my assumption easing with his joke. “Honestly, before I actually knew you, or started getting to know you, yes.”
He grunted, a sound indicating he wasn’t surprised.
“That happen a lot?”
I expected another joke, but what came made my heart ache.
“People often assume things about me. When you’re someone quiet, there’s more room to make guesses, and silence usually gets taken as confirmation of whatever assumptions. It’s not my favorite thing, butoh well. Such is life.”
Stepping to the side of the walkway, I pulled his hand to me, still clasped in mine, and held it close to my heart. “That’s frustrating. And stupid.”
He shrugged.
“Whatisyour favorite thing?”
Though nothing on his face changed, I’d swear he smiled. No idea how he managed that because truly, his lips hadn’t moved. Still, the expression made me feel a little giddy. He inched closer right there on the sidewalk, shielding us from fellow walkers by facing his broad back to the river and dipping his head. Then, he spoke. “I’ve got a whole pile of favorite things. I’ll write them down for you. You?”
My pulse picked up, both his nearness and his low, rich tone of voice hinting that whatever would be on that list, I’d like it.
I wanted the list.Oh, yes. I do.
“Food. I like food,” I said, flustered and blushing.
He smiled in earnest then, and my stomach tumbled.Oh. My. Goodness.The man was completely beautiful when he smiled like that.
“What?” I asked, desperate to know the cause of that smile so I could replicate it again soon, and often.
“Nothing at all. Let’s go inside.” He nodded his chin to the building we stood next to.
The brown brick building behind me was none other than the Tate Modern, apparently. We entered through a large, open end that seemed almost like a loading dock and opened into a huge space. A massive ramp led museum-goers down to the center of the space where a store waited.
“This is different,” I said, sounding as uncouth and uncultured as I ever had.
“From what my grandmother said, that’s a theme here.”
He tugged me along, and we found a map. Apparently, the exhibits were free, so we didn’t need tickets. Another rarity based on my limited experience. Soon enough, we were roaming halls filled with everything from a room of Andy Warhols to the famed Fountain by Marcel Duchamp which consisted of a urinal.
