by Staci Hart
Added bonus: the view.
Really, it wasn’t fair how gorgeous he was. His brows, strong and dark, drawn together with a contemplative line between them. His eyes, stony and gray and heavy when they brushed over me. His lips, always hard, even when tilted in an expression barely constituting a smile.
I got the sense that he enjoyed being around me too, though he hadn’t approached me about the project until I started dressing up.
A frown tugged at the corners of my lips as I slipped a book on Medici’s college into its spot on the shelf. The newfound attention was a blessing and a curse—it made me feel like a queen, and it made me feel cursed. It made me question people’s motives, and it made me question my own awareness of others. I wondered if people were always willing to treat me with kindness and respect had I only stood up straight and looked them in the eye.
My bare feet padded on the low-pile industrial carpet as I turned a corner, shifting the books in my arms. I wondered if I’d walked in on my first day dressed like this, what would have happened? I was convinced Bianca would have still hated me simply because we were so different. But would Dr. Lyons have noticed me? And if I’d come in dressed like I was before but walked into the room with my head held high, would they have seen me?
I sighed, picking up the next book on my stack to read the binding again, but it tilted in my hand, and when I shifted to hang on to it, the books in my arm slipped away and tumbled to the ground.
Where my bare, unsuspecting feet waited.
Pain exploded across the top of my feet and toes, and I sucked in a breath, reaching for the shelf to steady myself as I swore through reflexive tears. I brought one foot up to my knee, squeezing the top as hard as I could to try to defuse the pain, but goddamn if it didn’t help at all. The books were tented and, to my horror, the pages bending, and I dropped to my knees, my feet throbbing as I picked them up. But in my hurry, I grabbed a book carelessly—a page dragged long and slow against my fingertip in a blinding white-hot slice.
“Son of a bitch,” I hissed, dropping the book without a single care as to its safety, that traitor. Blood welled so quickly, it immediately began to roll off my fingertip, and I shoved the digit in my mouth, not angry enough to punish the turncoat book with my hemoglobin.
I hobbled to the table where my bag sat, digging through it for my makeup kit, releasing my finger to assist in unzipping it as the blood flowed openly and without remorse. But, a few seconds later, the paper cut to end all paper cuts was momentarily contained by a bandage touting a Ninja Turtle, Michelangelo.
An art history gag gift, courtesy of Val.
I dropped into my chair, the wind properly out of my sails, the pain in my feet dulled to a gentle ache and my finger pulsing with my heartbeat, and realized with a salty laugh that not much had changed at all.
I was still very much me, lipstick and heels or no. And Mikey and his gooey slice of pizza were proof.
Which, I found, was somehow supremely comforting, paper cut and all.
Court
The day was almost over, and I found myself in a rush to get to my office after the budget meeting in the hopes I wouldn’t miss Rin coming to report on her day. I blew through two attempts at conversation, thwarted a handshake, and flat-out ignored another curator who tried to flag me from across the room. But no one could stop me.
Not until I saw Lydia in the gallery, standing in front of Pietro Longhi’s The Visit.
Fitting, I thought, stopping behind her without realizing.
Lydia was as poised and beautiful as she’d always been, her golden hair cascading down her back in gleaming waves, her clothes impeccable and expensive, her poise and grace innate. When she turned, she met my eyes with no surprise, as if she’d known I was there, though I knew it was him she was waiting for.
“Hello, Court.”
I jerked my chin at the painting, slipping my hands into my pockets to mask my discomfort. “I used to wonder why you loved this painting so much. In hindsight, it makes perfect sense.”
She chuckled—a sound that set my insides twisting—and set her attention on the Italian noblewoman, seated in her parlor, surrounded by men. The old regal one behind her was clearly her lord husband, and a servant hung in the shadows behind her. To her left sat the chaplain, likely preaching to her about her sins—the primary sin being the virile young man seated to her right. He wore a dressing gown, his hair mussed and cheeks flushed, as he fed her lapdog a treat; his hand formed a partially masked circular gesture that, at the time, was considered erotic. He was her escort, and their tryst had only just ended, judging by his state of undress.
“How are you?” Lydia asked plainly, as if we were old friends.
It was always like this.
“What are you doing here?” I clipped.
“Isn’t it obvious? Waiting for your father. Admiring Longhi. What are you doing here?”
“Leaving.”
I turned to go—I never should have stopped in the first place—but she halted me.
“Really, Court—are you well? It’s been a while since I’ve seen you.”
My jaw clicked shut as I met her eyes mine glaring, hers cold. “Why do you do that?”
“Do what?”
“Pretend like you give a shit about me. Because we both know that’s not true.”
She sighed, a resigned, dismissive sound. “This was why we never would have worked. You have far too much sensibility. For being so strong, you’re terribly delicate.”
“And for being so well bred, you really are a whore. Give my father my regards.”
To her credit, she didn’t even look offended—I thought I heard her sigh again as I turned on my heel and walked away.
My mind was a beehive, humming and buzzing and crawling in my skull. It wasn’t uncommon to see Lydia at the museum. And it wasn’t uncommon for me to find myself affected by her presence.
I’d forgotten all about Rin until I walked into my office and found her standing in front of my desk, her body turned for the door like she couldn’t decide whether to stay or go.
Stay, my mind whispered.
Her face brightened when she saw me. “Hello, Dr. Lyons. I finished the research you requested today—it should be in your email. I just wanted to stop in before I left to see if you wanted to discuss it.” The final word hung between us like a question, one with the indubitable answer of yes.
“Thank you, Rin. Yes, have a seat.”
She seemed as relieved as I felt as she sank into the leather chair and rummaged through her bag for her notes. And I stepped around the desk and sat, feeling the hive in my brain slow like it’d been smoked, stilling once she began to talk, silencing as I answered.
Her hair fell in her face as she spoke; she brushed it away with her fingers, one of which was taped with a green blur.
I frowned. “What happened to your finger?”
Her cheeks flushed. “Oh! I…well, I-I dropped a stack of books—I’m so sorry, but they’re all right. I mean, there might have been a few bent pages, but I smoothed them out, and I think they’ll be okay,” she rambled, her eyes darting around the room like she was in an interrogation for a heist rather than an inquiry after her health.
“Rin, I’m not worried about the books. What happened to your finger?”
She sighed and held it up. “A paper cut.”
My frown deepened as I noted the dark spot of blood smudging—I squinted to see—a Ninja Turtle’s face. “Is that…”
“Leonardo. Cowabunga.”
A laugh shot out of me. “Must have been some paper cut.”
“It was. This is my third Ninja Turtle. I only have Raphael left.”
I opened my bottom desk drawer for my first aid kit, digging through it for a swab and a real bandage before getting up, walking around my desk, and sitting on the edge in front of her. I extended my hand for hers.
Her flush, which had momentarily gone, surged in her cheeks, smudging them with color. “Oh no, that’s
okay, I’m fine. It’s just a paper cut.”
I quieted her with a look, flexing my fingers in a silent demand. And, tentatively, she obliged.
Her fingers were long and soft, her hand warm and delicate, and I turned it over in mine, peeling the flimsy kids’ bandage off easily—an accidental flick of her wrist would have rid her of it. The cut was deep, white on the edges, her skin pruned from the confines of the bandage. I took my time cleaning her off and bandaging her up, cataloging the details of her hand, the creases in her knuckles, her long nail beds, the fine bones, the meat of her palm. And before I let her go, I made the grave mistake of meeting her eyes.
They were locked on mine, her lips parted, her body leaning and hand resting solidly in mine.
I didn’t let her go.
And I found myself leaning.
She drew the smallest of breaths.
Awareness snapped through me like ice. I returned her hand and rose from my perch in a single motion, moving to put the desk between us.
I opened my computer, my eyes on my screen so I wouldn’t make the same mistake twice. “You know, I don’t want to keep you here so late. I’ll look over your notes, and we can discuss them in the morning.”
She was already packing her things, much to my disappointment.
What did you want her to do, say no?
“Thanks, Dr. Lyons.” She stood, slinging on her bag, and I searched her face, looking to see if she was as affected by me as I was by her. But I found nothing.
It was for the best.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” she said with a smile.
I nodded once, watching her walk away.
And I didn’t even have the good sense to realize how little control I had.
12
Sinners and Saints
Court
I stepped into Bianca’s office the next morning looking for Rin—she hadn’t come to my office that morning, and for the last half hour, I’d obsessively watched the clock, waiting for her.
She’d never come. And so, I was on the hunt.
When I saw her desk was empty, I frowned.
Bianca looked up from her computer and smiled. “Hey. Need anything?”
“Rin. Where is she?”
Her eyes tightened, her smile fading. “I sent her straight to the library. What do you want with her?”
The question was almost accusatory, and my jaw clenched in answer. “I have research to discuss with her. Is that a problem?”
“Not a problem. I’m just not sure why you didn’t ask me for help with this whole thing.”
“You’re busy.”
“So is she,” Bianca clipped.
“But you’re vital to the exhibition, and she’s not.”
She watched me for a tick of the clock. “Honestly, Court. I thought we’d agreed she wasn’t a good fit. Now you’re planning work with her, and the only thing that’s changed is her outfit. I thought the rumors about you weren’t true, but now I’m starting to wonder.”
The jab glanced a wound that had never—would never—heal. “Careful,” I growled, squaring myself to her desk, lowering my chin to level her with my gaze. “Are you suggesting I’d abuse my authority? That a little lipstick would change my opinion? It certainly didn’t help you.” She leaned back, affronted, and I continued, “I hired you because of your competence, not for how you looked in a skirt. And I asked Rin for help because I was impressed with her work. Remember that the next time you consider insulting me—unless you’re preparing your resignation letter.”
I turned and left her office, fuming, the irony of the situation not lost on me. To suggest I’d sleep with the intern was petty enough, considering that sleeping with me was exactly what Bianca wanted for herself. Not that she was wrong in suggesting that I had a thing for Rin, but I wasn’t stupid enough to do anything about it. I had a rule. Boundaries. A line in the sand. And I could stay on my side, just like I had been.
I strode through the office and to the elevator, riding it up to the fourth floor to find Rin in the library, as promised, leaning over a book with her earbuds in. Textbooks were fanned open all around her, each marked and organized in a train of thought only known by her. Her hair was swept over one shoulder and hanging in a glossy black sheet, a backdrop to the crisp pale of her profile.
When she saw me, she shot up straight in her chair, her eyes wide and lips in an O. Her hands flew out in surprise, disrupting a book, and it slid off the table, hitting the ground with a thump.
I found myself wearing a tilted smile as I moved to her side, kneeling to pick up the book. My position put me at eye-level with her legs—her bare legs. Her pencil skirt was hiked up her thighs, her legs crossed, one foot in her heel and the other free of its confines, and my eyes traced the gentle curve of her arch, her heel, her ankle, her calf, and up.
Book in hand, I met her eyes, the swirl of molten midnight blue with flecks of silver like stars. “Dropped something.” I extended it to her.
Her blush was so brilliant, my smile stretched up on one side in answer as she set down her earbuds and took the tome from my hand.
I stood, inspecting the table, my eyes landing on a half-eaten Little Debbie that sat next to her lanyard. I’d never seen the photo—none of us actually wore the lanyards—and I turned my head to get a good look. I still couldn’t believe this was the same girl in that picture. The woman who sat next to me was quiet and submissive, sure, but she was confident and brilliant, driven in the most enigmatically compliant way.
Her cheeks flushed deeper when she saw what I was looking at, swiping it away to stuff it into her bag. “Ugh, I’m so glad no one wears these around. I’ve never taken a good photo in my life.”
A chuckle rumbled through me. “Somehow I find that hard to believe. Never?”
“Never. I think I only had one eye open in my newborn photos. It’s my gift, along with falling up stairs and choking on air. But I’m also gifted with the ability to rap almost every Wu-Tang lyric by heart.”
I smirked, folding my arms across my chest in challenge. “‘Clan in Da Front.’”
She tilted her head, smiling in answer as she launched into the lyrics about not giving a goddamn what a soldier did. And then she put the clans in the front and the punks in the back, rolling her shoulders all the while.
I laughed and shot her another one. “‘Redbull.’”
She jumped straight in and told me about how she was hotter than a hundred degrees with her coat on. Which had never been so true.
“‘Triumph.’”
She shook her head and laughed like I was an amateur, bobbing her head, twisting darts like hearts, showing me just how little I knew.
“Well, aren’t you full of surprises?”
Rin laughed, her cheeks a rosy shade of pink, as amused as it was bashful. “Like I said, this is my gift.”
“You know,” I started, nodding at her snack, “those things are terrible for you.”
She shrugged. “So is Mountain Dew, but a girl’s gotta live.” I must not have look convinced because she added, “It’s oatmeal. And cream. That’s technically breakfast.”
“A muffin is breakfast. That is a factory-made tragedy.”
“How is a muffin better than this savory treat?” she asked, mocking affront. “They’ve been saving college kids dumb enough to sign up for eight a.m. classes for decades. Little Debbie should get a Nobel Peace Prize, as far as I’m concerned.”
I shook my head, still smiling as I nodded to the opened books on the table. “What are you working on?”
She took a breath, a pause of uncertainty. “Your Medici research.”
In fairness, many of the books did seem to be about Medici. But I reached for one that had caught my attention and displayed Crivelli’s Mary Magdalene for her inspection with one brow arched.
Her blush deepened. “I…well, Bianca—I mean, Dr. Nixon said…”
I waited for her to finish, but instead, her lush red lip caught between her teeth.
“We don’t have this piece coming to the exhibit, nor do we have Caravaggio’s Mary Magdalene in Ecstasy,” I said, picking up the book on Caravaggio. “Or Tintoretto’s Penitent Magdalene. In fact, we don’t have any of the Magdalenes.”
“Dr. Nixon told me to work on my proposal instead of research for the exhibition.”
My smirk flattened, my chest filling with fire when I drew a long breath. “She hasn’t given you any work to do?”
Rin shook her head once, a small, timid gesture.
My jaw clicked closed and flexed. “Get your things.”
“Wh-what?” She angled away from me in her seat, seemingly afraid.
“Get your things and come with me.”
She turned to the table. “But all the books—”
“Don’t worry about the books,” I said, the words cold and heavy with warning not meant for her.
I waited, arms folded across my chest while she slipped on her shoe and gathered her laptop and notebook, depositing them into her leather bag before standing, giving the books one last look before facing me.
When she was sitting down, it was easy to forget how tall she was, only a couple of inches shorter than me with those heels on. But when she drew herself up to her full height like she was now, standing before me in a tailored white shirt, unbuttoned to her breasts, and a herringbone pencil skirt, she nearly looked me in the eye, meeting my level in a disarming, uncommon moment of equality.
The inexplicable instinct to step into her, to slip my hand into the curve of her waist, to feel the length of her body pressed against mine, was so strong, my hand shifted, rising a few inches before I regained control and turned on my heel in a frustrated snap of motion. And she followed me, caught in the draft of my long stride as I thundered toward Bianca’s office.
Bianca glanced up when we entered, greeting me with a smile that immediately descended on seeing Rin behind me.
“Anything you’d like to share, Bianca?”