Page 44 of The Man in the Painting

CHAPTERFIFTEEN

Melody

I’m nervous.

I hope he doesn’t see how badly I’m quaking in my three-inch strappy heels.

Abram looks handsome and relaxed.

I guess he’s used to places like this.

He’s an experienced man who’s been to the most exquisite restaurants all over the world with beautiful, elegant women of different nationalities. So, being in some three-star restaurant in Hudson with plain Melody Hanson is a piece of cake for him.

But for me, everything’s a first.

I’ve never been to a fancy restaurant with an incredibly handsome man who seems to be the center of attention.

I’m freaking out.

I can’t help but feel like everyone in the restaurant is staring at us. I could almost hear the wheels turning in their heads.

I can see them huddling closer to whisper among themselves as they make comparisons.

Why’s a man like him with a woman like her?

Then Abram smiles at me, and nothing else matters except him. Right here, at this moment, he’s mine. It doesn’t matter for how long. All that matters are the memories we’re making right now.

“Did you enjoy your meal?” Abram asks, smiling into my eyes.

“I did,” I say, my lips pulling up in a smile. “The oyster sauce tasted so good, and I thought I’d get a foodgasm when I tasted the truffle they served for dessert.”

Abram laughs.

“What the heck is foodgasm?”

I joined in his laughter, shaking my head at him.

“It’s a feeling. I can’t explain it.”

“I think I’ve got an idea,” Abram says, shaking his head in amusement.

A tense silence falls between us as Abram continues to look into my eyes. I lower my eyes, suddenly interested in the sparkling red wine in front of me.

Does it taste so exquisite because it’s a French wine?

“You make me happy, Melody,” Abram says, breaking the awkward silence. My eyes snap up to his, and my heart skips dangerously as the solemn look in his beautiful blue-green eyes pierces my heart. “If you don’t mind being with an old man, I’d like to....”

“You’re not old!” I say and quickly cover my mouth at the realization of my thoughtlessness. “I’m sorry for the interruption,” I add, clearing my throat awkwardly. “Please, continue.”

“I’m forty-nine, sweetheart,” Abram says with an amused chuckle. “Some consider that pretty old.”

“I don’t,” I say with a small shrug. “You’re just perfect.”

Abram lets out a hearty laugh. He looks so different when he laughs. His eyes crinkle up at the corners giving him the expression of someone who’s lived a lot of happy memories.

I wish I could paint like him then I’d capture this image of him on a canvas in the brightest and most beautiful colors.

“I see what you did there,” he says when his laughter dies down. “Thank you, sweetheart.”

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