Another day, another museum, another gallery. Enrichment.
I crave the novel waiting for me. With my book, I’d lounge on the beach in the sunshine with gentle waves lapping at talc-soft sand, sipping sangria.
“Look at the brushstrokes,” Niall says.
“Hmm.” Brushstrokes. They’d have to be there, wouldn’t they? How else would the bloody paint get on the canvas?
I mentally bang my head against the white wall. Imagine alarms springing to life. Police swarming. Smile.
Ingrate, self-admonition. He’s sharing himself. It’s sweet.
“You hate this.”
“Two more paintings then the beach.”
Cheerleaders whoop, shaking their pompoms. “Okay.”