Page 14 of Dating His Brother

“Is this you making sure I don’t stand him up?”

“This is me calling to ask a favor,” he replied. “Please, Izzy. Be nice. For once.”

“My impression so far is that Richard doesn’t need me to do him any favors. He seems to be perfectly capable of holding his own with me.”

“Believe me, I noticed. Which is why I wanted you to meet him. But just because I think the guy can survive you and your claws doesn’t mean I’m not worried about you shattering his ego. He’s working on a big case right now and doesn’t need any major blows to his self-esteem.”

“I’ll behave,” I groaned, rolling my eyes.

I hung up when I heard my front doorbell ring. I answered to find Richard standing there, polished and poised, with a small bouquet of red roses in hand.Classic.

“Wow,” he grinned, looking me up and down. “You look phenomenal.”

“Thanks.” I shrugged, grabbing my bag to walk out and lock my door.

Richard told me he made reservations at a very exclusive restaurant downtown, but his driver pulled up in front of a string of galleries and parked.

“Do you like art?” he asked me.

That word was now tainted with memories of pesky Dawson, so I held back a look of disdain. “I know about art, but it’s not my favorite. No.”

“Perfect. I don’t like it either,” he told me. “But my brother is an artist and he’s got a few pieces in this opening tonight, so I’m obligated to make an appearance. Just a quick one. You can wait here if you’d prefer, but I’d love to take you in there and show you off. These artsy chicks and collectors have nothing on you.”

“Flattery works on me sometimes,” I shrugged. “Sure, I’ll come in with you. But only for half an hour, tops.”

“Fair enough.”

The driver came around to open our doors, and a few photographers snapped our pictures out front. This was obviously a big affair in the art world from the looks of it, and it had the crowd and expensive wine to prove it.

Richard knew many of the attendees and was instantly flooded by them, getting cornered into small talk the moment we walked in. Me being on his arm didn’t hurt matters any. It was nice being with someone who understood whatmaking an appearancetruly meant. It wasn’t about you enjoying the event, or anyone enjoying you attending it. It really was, quite literally, just about being seen there to appease certain people. Richard had to go to appease his brother, which was ironically the whole reason I was on this date in the first place.

When we finally managed to break away from the string of introductions and casual hellos, we studied a wall of paintings. They were giant abstract pieces with bold colors and sloppy strokes.

Richard grunted and curled his lips as he sipped his drink. “I misled you. I told you I don’t like art, but there isn’t even any art here. This looks like a paper towel that was used to clean up a spill.”

“I don’t always mind abstract art,” I admitted, working my way down the line of paintings.

There was one in particular that lured me in. The colors in it looked familiar, like something I had seen in the arts district. It had emerald greens and purples, my favorite colors, swirling together with white and deep navy blues. The rhythm of the brushstrokes had a sort of melody to them, a song I maybe could have heard if the crowded gallery wasn’t so noisy. I found myself leaning in closer, as if I could make it out if I just listened hard enough.

“I’m going to grab another drink, and then we’ll get out of here,” Richard announced, oblivious to my trance with the painting.

“Sure,” I smiled at him before turning back to the painting.

I found myself asking all sorts of questions. If the canvas were smaller, would it still have the same impact? As it was, in its large scale, it was quite gripping. And I started to imagine it hanging in my den over my white leather couch. It would look good in there, and I was halfway considering buying it without Richard knowing. He obviously wasn’t impressed by any of the art there that night.

I leaned in closer to study the brushstrokes, following the lines down to the bottom right corner to find the artist’s signature. Maybe I recognized the name…

“I told you I show in galleries sometimes,” a familiar voice appeared behind me.

Dawson.

As soon as I heard him speak, I spotted the name scribbled in the corner. Of course this was his painting. I had been tricked and trapped by him yet again.

He towered over me from behind, close enough for me to feel his hot breath on the back of my neck and down my spine…which, I had to admit, something in me kind of liked. It gave me goosebumps and stirred a longing inside that I would, of course, never admit to.

“Did you tell me that?” I shot back. “I thought you hated galleries. You said you preferred the street corner, but then again…you also said you didn’t know who I was.”

“No,you assumedI hated galleries. And anythingbourgeoisie,I believe you said.”

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