Page 10 of Pride
“Here,” he said, handing me the champagne.
“Thank you.” I reached up to take the glass and when my fingers grazed his I felt that spark again, and I swear I heard him gasp.
“Would you like some food?” he asked, but I shook my head.
“I ate before I came here,” I lied, sipping the champagne that I knew would go straight to my head.
“So, you’re a reporter.” He tilted his head, giving me his full attention, and the rest of the room fell away. “That must be fascinating. I admire anyone that can write. It must be so rewarding.”
“It has its moments.”
He narrowed his eyes, and his head shook slightly as he asked, “Have we met before?”
I think I’d remember you, I thought, but replied, “I don’t think so.”
He frowned, rubbing his stubbled jaw as he said, “I can’t seem to shake the feeling that I know you.”
“Maybe I have a memorable face.” I shrugged.
He paused, then uttered, “Very memorable.” And my already hot cheeks burned fiercer as I began to breathe a little deeper.
“Are you an art collector?” he asked, waiting avidly to hear my response. His eye contact was insane, and the way he focused on me, like I was the most important person in this room, made me forget that I was ever awkward or nervous to be around these people.
“I’m an art lover, but not a collector.” I gestured to a set of abstract portraits on the wall behind us. “The pieces here are a little out of my price range. But I hear you’re a collector, Mr Kingston.”
“Alex,” he replied, his expression softening as he spoke. “Please call me Alex. And yes, I am.” He smiled, and it made me insides twirl.
“Are there any pieces here that you’ll be adding to your private collection?” I smiled back, annoyed that my lip was quivering with nerves.
“Which piece is your favourite, Miss Belmont?” he asked, throwing the question right back at me.
“It’s Emma,” I said, my voice coming out all breathy.
“Emma,” he replied like he was testing how my name sounded on his tongue. Then he repeated, “Which piece is your favourite,Emma,” and the way he said my name made my body turn to molten lava.
I took a deep breath, trying to formulate my thoughts into a response that wouldn’t make me sound as uneducated as I felt, as he regarded me with fascination and curiosity.
“I think all the art here has a lot of merit. Some pieces are truly stunning. I particularly like the modernist approach of some of them. The reflection on today’s society and how we see ourselves, like a window to our souls.”
He smiled and shook his head. “You don’t have to give me the generic newspaper spiel. I want your honest opinion. An answer that comes from the heart. Just tell me,Emma, which one stands out to you? What piece of art makes you feel something?” He took another sip of his drink, then tilted his glass towards me and asked, “If money was no object, which one would you buy?”
I could feel sweat gathering on my upper lip as he looked at me, waiting for a response. The little black dress I wore suddenly felt too tight, too restrictive. I was worried about saying the wrong thing and making myself sound stupid. Stalling for time, I cleared my throat, as I felt every pair of eyes boring into me. Then I glanced around at the others, the room around us now back in focus and blaring loudly, making me feel self-conscious. Our circle had stopped talking and they were watching us, waiting for me to speak. And just like that, my tongue felt too big for my mouth.
“Don’t worry about them,” Alex said, moving to stand right in front of me, blocking the others out. Sensing I was nervous and acting in a way to defend and protect me. “You’re not on the spot here. There is no right or wrong answer,Emma. Just pick one.”
“The heart,” I blurted out, turning to point at the wall with the S.K.A.M. graffiti art on it. “Follow your heart,” I added, “Because how can you follow your heart if it’s in pieces like that? Which part do you follow? Because it all matters. Everything attached to each fractured part. And I think, maybe, the artist is trying to explain that we all feel torn in life, between duty,family, work, friends, caring for the environment, being the best person we can be, but always feeling as if we’re failing, because we can’t follow every part. We can’t be all things to all people.”
“We can’t,” he replied softly, his face so close to mine as we stared at each other, lost in a little bubble he’d created. “But if we can be something to someone, doesn’t that make everything worthwhile?”
I nodded, unable to form words.
We stood for a moment in silence, and then he glanced to the side, where a podium with a gorgeous flower arrangement stood. He reached out and took one of the pale pink peonies from it and handed it to me.
“Here’s to being somebody’s someone,” he said, and I took the flower, glancing at it before peering back up at him.
“I don’t think you’re supposed to take those,” I said, my eyes wide.
He leaned closer. “Who’s going to stop me?” He winked, and the flutters I’d felt exploded like fireworks inside me when I saw the hint of power and dominance he was radiating.
