If We Ever Meet Again (If Love 1) - Page 22
“It’s amazing.” Farrah took another bite and hummed in bliss.
Blake’s body reacted viscerally to the sound.
I need to get laid.
The last time he had sex was…holy fuck, in July, right before he broke up with Cleo. Two whole months. It was his longest dry spell since he lost his virginity to the most popular girl in the senior class when he was fifteen.
Shauna Smith. She’d been something. And she earned her title as head cheerleader in more ways than one.
“I can’t believe I’ve never had this before.” Farrah tossed her empty wrapper and milk tea container in the trash. “I usually go to Cinnamon for breakfast. Kris insists.”
“This is better than cafe food, and cheaper too.” Blake tapped his metro card on the reader. “Don’t say I never bought you anything.”
Her silvery laugh sent another wave of awareness rippling through his body.
Correction: I REALLY need to get laid.
“So, where are we going?”
“Have you heard of M50?”
“Sort of.” Blake had never heard of M50 in his life.
“It’s Shanghai’s contemporary art district. There’s a ton of galleries—and design inspo.” Farrah waved her sketchbook in the air.
“For the competition.”
She looked surprised. “You remember.”
“Of course.” Blake couldn’t forget the way Farrah’s eyes lit up when she talked about the competition. She was studying interior design because she loved it, not because everyone said she should. Her passion was refreshing…and depressing. Blake had never felt that way about football or anything else in his life, really.
He knew what he didn’t want to do. Now he had to figure out what he did want to do.
After ten minutes in M50, Blake scratched “artist” off his potential careers list. As a neighborhood, M50 was cool. It featured old warehouses and factory buildings-turned-galleries for every type of art Blake could imagine, and some he couldn’t.
There were confounding multimedia neon and LED light installations and a terrifying exhibit of monstrous spider sculptures. There was also a weird-ass garden where everything—trees, grass, flowers—was made of knitted yarn.
Blake appreciated the creativity, but…he didn’t get it. He understood paintings. That was art. Boring art, but art. He did not understand the point of knitting a tree (seriously, what the fuck?) or why someone would pay thousands of dollars for a twisted piece of metal.
Rich people needed to find better ways to spend their money.
Farrah, on the other hand, was so busy examining the exhibits and scribbling notes she stopped speaking to him once they started gallery hopping. He didn’t mind; watching her work was way more interesting than any of the exhibits on display.
Soon, Blake could identify her every micro-expression. The way her brow furrowed when she was thinking hard; the way she tilted her head an inch to the left when she was confused; the way her eyebrows shot up and her mouth parted in excitement when she came across a revelation. He knew it was a revelation because she’d open that notepad of hers and scribble like crazy.
Perhaps he should be an anthropologist, though Blake suspected his interest in studying people was limited to Farrah. He’d never been this engrossed by anyone else before.
By the time they wrapped up their self-guided tour, it was almost three. Blake’s stomach growled with anger—they’d blitzed through the galleries without stopping for food.
Blake and Farrah settled for the first cafe they could find. The airy industrial space doubled as a gallery and studio, and customers drifted through the loft, admiring the art displays with their coffees in hand.
Despite the bustling crowds, they snagged a table in the loft-like seating area upstairs. Their “meal” comprised of coffee, paninis, brownies, and cheesecake.
Healthy? No. Delicious? Hell yeah.
“Thanks for coming with me today.” Farrah sipped her drink. “Sorry if I ignored you. When I get in the zone, I tune out everything else.”
“It’s ok.” Blake wasn’t used to being ignored, but it was nice being able to do his own thing without other people breathing down his neck. At TSU, he couldn’t take a shit without others talking about it.
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