Page 5 of Take This Heart
Hell, I’m sure there are more scandalous things I’ve done than this park model of exquisite artwork and skill. I could dip her over the model and show her a thing or two that would truly be outrageous.
In fact, it’d almost be a travestynotto dip her back on the installation and show her just how wrong I can be. So wrong that it’d feel so right. The way she stared up at me, her big brown eyes with the gold specks gazing up at me with desire, her tongue sneaking out to wet those cushiony red lips, made me certain she wished I would.
I almost respect her honesty. Because she didn’t critique the materials or the execution. She critiqued the lack of soul, specifically my very own dark and twisted one.
And I have to admit that what bothers me most is that she struck a nerve. I’ve loved Spoonbridge and Cherry for as long as I can remember. She’s also right that it’s a part of the Minneapolis landscape that will be missed, but isn’t it worth it if more people around the country are allowed to enjoy it for themselves?
I circle the gallery, greeting board members and donors and answering questions from junior curators and well-dressed influencers. My practiced smile is in place—it’s second nature by now.
But my eyes keep tracking back to her.
We run into each other again near the back wall, where one of the smaller installations is failing to impress anyone. She turns as I approach, almost as if she felt me coming.
“Milo Lombardi,” she says, sipping her champagne. “Still brooding?”
I arch a brow. “Still spewing venom?”
Her eyes flash. “I thought you’d be off collecting compliments from the press.”
“Thought I’d take a break. Let someone else enjoy the sound of their own voice.”
She lifts her glass in salute. “How generous of you.”
There’s a weighted moment of silence that hangs.
She tilts her head, looking past me to my model.
“They love it,” she says bitterly. “You’re going to get everything you want, aren’t you?”
I follow her gaze and then stare at the long curve of her neck as she spits daggers at my work. “Not everything.”
She turns back and meets my eyes, her cheeks flushing. “Meaning?”
“No one gets everything they want, do they?”
Her eyes narrow. “I’m sure you’re not lacking.”
“You don’t seem to be either.”
“True. I can’t complain.”
“You make it a habit of wearing Doc Martens with your evening gowns?” I smirk.
A strange expression crosses her face, but she recovers quickly. “I do now.”
I want to ask what she means by that, but instead, I say, “Well, it says something that you’ve stayed all evening…for me.”
Her eyes flash. “I didn’t stay for you.”
“Didn’t you?” I point at the banner that has my name on it and she rolls her eyes.
“You’re impossible,” she says.
“You’re worse. You make a lot of assumptions.”
“And you think you don’t? Trust me, I didn’t even notice your name. But Ihaveworked with a lot of men like you.” Her eyes flicker over my face with accusation.
“Men like me?”
