Page 24 of The Winter Princess
My eyes snap open. Speaking my thoughts out loud is a sign of being too relaxed.
No need to panic. I was thinking very business-y thoughts. “Have you ever heard of ASMR?”
He shakes his head, dislodging a few locks of dark hair. I ball my hand into a fist and bury it in my skirts.
“Some people get a low-grade euphoric response when they hear whispering or the bristles of a brush moving over a surface. Tapping fingernails, things like that. There’s a whole cottage industry of people who make those kinds of videos.”
“I could give someone low-grade euphoria?” he asks, looping his thumbs around the bib of his apron. He holds his chin slightly uptilted.
My eyes narrow, trying to read him. I’ve noticed that he lifts his chin when he’s trying not to smile but, like a light in a house, it doesn’t matter that he’s closed every door and shuttered every window. It finds its way through tiny cracks.
Part of me files the knowledge away. The other part is awash in light.
My cheeks warm.
“No,” I yelp. “Maybe. I don’t know. While you were working just now, it occurred to me that art restoration would make for amazing content.”
My nose wrinkles at the word. Content. That’s definitely something I heard from Ella. My YouTube viewing history is limited to live opera recordings, “jazz cafe in a rainstorm,” and ASMR videos.
Oskar grunts and returns to his work. It’s no longer relaxing me. I collect our leftovers, popping them inside a small refrigerator near his desk with a spare set of chopsticks, and stack the trash into a tidy pile for the cleaning crew.
“Don’t go,” Oskar says. At his words, my hand stills and my stomach dips.
“What—”
His answer is businesslike. “The security system will lock the whole place down if someone exits improperly. Give me a few minutes to finish up, and I’ll walk you out.”
What did I think he was going to say? Not that.
I resume my place on the sofa, sitting primly with my hands resting around my knees, deeply annoyed to find the air simmering with energy. My air, anyway. His air looks as placid as a millpond.
It is a relief when he pulls off his apron, dons his coat, grabs his keys, and escorts me through the darkened halls of the museum. The seeds of another idea have been planted in my brain, and I mull it over, hating the way it could change this place I love.
“What’s your favorite museum?” I ask when my thoughts become too attuned to the way he walks and the precise number of centimeters separating us.
“Greybull Museum.”
My forehead furrows. “I’ve never heard of it.”
“Oh, well, ifyou’venever heard of it…”
I knock a hand against his, the contact sparking an unwelcome reaction. “Stop being difficult.”
He opens a door and guides me through, hand gently on my back. Sparks where he touches. Sparks where he doesn’t. I was right to avoid him for three years. I should have made it ten.
“The Greybull, Wyoming community museum is housed in one room.”
I halt. “I painted a sincere picture for you of an art-starved college student, knapsack loaded with delicious sandwiches, wandering the V&A for hours. The least you could do is give me your real answer.”
He puts his hands in his pockets and leans lightly against a column. “Greybull is my real answer. It doesn’t have a prime minister’s endowment or wealthy patrons. It’s got rocks and quilts, stuffed bison busts, and panoramic graduation photos. That kind of thing.”
“Your favorite museum has rocks?”
He lifts a shoulder. “It has enthusiasm.” There goes that chin again. He wants to smile. “Someone had enough passion to gather it together.”
“Passion? Does it even have a gift shop?”
He thinks. “There was a t-shirt stand.”
