The Girl in the Painting

The rest of the class moves their attention toward the door, and Indy lets out an exasperated laugh. “Looks like you’ve been caught red-handed, and now you need to face the consequences.”

A confused smile crosses my lips. “Consequences?”

Indy doesn’t respond. Instead, she gestures me inside. “This is my friend,” she announces to her class. “Class, everyone say hello to Mr. Bray.”

“Hello, Mr. Bray!”

“Hi.” I laugh and run a hand through my hair as I walk toward the front of the classroom and set Indy’s coffee on her desk. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“Why are you here?”

“What is your first name?”

“Are you Ms. Davis’s boyfriend?”

The questions are thrown rapid-fire toward us, and I now understand what Indy meant by consequences.

“All right,” Indy says calmly toward her students. “Everyone just settle down for a minute, and if you have a question, you know the rules.”

“We have to raise our hands!” they shout back toward her.

Indy nods. “Exactly.”

Every hand in the classroom shoots up to form a field of waving arms.

She shoots an amused grin in my direction and whispers, “Consequences.”

I laugh. “I think I can handle them.”

They’re just a bunch of kids, right?

“Amy.” Indy points toward a little girl with a blond ponytail seated in the back of the classroom. “What is your question for Mr. Bray?”

“Are you one of the guys on my mom’s books?”

I tilt my head to the side and look at Indy for a little clarity, but she just shrugs and shakes her head. “Your mom’s books?”

“Yeah!” Amy shouts toward me, inside voice be damned. “My mom has all these books with guys with their shirts off! You kind of look like one of ’em!”

Fucking hell. So much for just a bunch of kids.

Indy has to cover her mouth with her hand as her shoulders start to vibrate with laughter, and it takes everything inside of me not to laugh. “Um…I’m pretty sure I’m not one of those guys.”

“Oh.” Amy’s disappointment is evident. Her lips turn down into a little frown. “Never mind, then.”

The class starts to chatter and argue among themselves, and Indy’s big blue eyes meet mine.

“I’m really hoping Amy’s mom reads romance novels.” The only other option I can think of that would apply would be some type of adult magazine.

“Me too,” Indy agrees with a secret smile. “Now, if you don’t mind, I need to corral my class back into order, and I don’t think it will be possible with you standing up here. Take a seat in the back while we finish up.”

I smile at the way she orders me rather than requests. Seeing her as a teacher is like seeing her in another light.

“You got it, Ms. Davis.”

Indy

“I can’t believe the big thing that was bothering you was the Met. You’re kind of dramatic, you know that?” I tease Ansel, and he feigns a scowl.

“It was tragic, Indy. You’re a New Yorker, for God’s sake.”

“Well, I’ve been now.” I waggle my brows and look around the vast displays of painting and sculptures encased within one of the most popular art museums in the country, if not the world.

“Yeah, thanks to me.”

“Minor semantics.” I grin and follow Ansel’s path toward a long wall of large, ornately framed paintings.

“By the way, I still think you’re dramatic.”

“I’m an artist, Indy.” He grins at me in my periphery. “We’re known to be moody, intolerable, stubborn bastards. Dramatic isn’t exactly far removed from that list.”

For the past hour, we’ve explored the Metropolitan Museum of Art’s creative and iconic nooks and crannies, and I’ve yet to grow bored of listening to him tell me about the artists and the sculptors and showing me his favorite works.

His passion for art shines in his words, and I don’t think I could ever get tired of that kind of love and adoration.

The more time I spend with him, the more I realize he is infinitely interesting to me. Each encounter, I learn something new—about him, about myself, about life. It’s as if he has the ability to open my eyes to worlds I didn’t know existed.

“Also, I guess I should admit, I’m glad your art neuroses got the best of you today.” I nudge his arm with my elbow. “Thanks for bringing me here.”

“You’re welcome.” He wraps his arm around my shoulders, and the warmth of his body permeates my sweater. “And if you like this, then one day, you need to go to Paris to see the Louvre.”

“You’ve been to Paris?”

“More than a few times,” he answers. “It might be my favorite city in the world, and that’s saying a lot coming from a homebody like me.”

I smile at his playful words, but mostly, my mind flits off into a tiny daydream.

Of Ansel and me in Paris. I imagine myself inside the City of Love, exploring its beauty and charm. The Louvre. The Eiffel Tower. Montmartre. All of the places I’ve heard about but have never seen up close and personal.