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He loved her for that.
“I may have made an arrangement with the director.”
“May have?”
“Did,” he admitted. “I did make an arrangement with the director. But,” he added as she opened her mouth to interject, “it does involve a new exhibition. He just omitted that he would not be present at this first meeting.”
She rubbed at her temples, as if staving off the beginnings of a headache.
“You could have just asked to see me, Griffith.”
“Yes. But then I couldn’t have surprised you.”
She glanced over her shoulder as the capsule began its ascent. A small smile played over her lips.
“It is beautiful.”
“I’m glad you like it.”
When she turned back to face him, he had set the silver bucket he’d kept behind his back on the oval-shaped bench in the center of the capsule. The sound of her laughter, light and surprised, filled him as nothing else had since he’d left France.
“Champagne?”
“Yes. To celebrate the opening of the Victoria and Albert’s new exhibition next spring.”
He popped the cork and poured two glasses of bubbling golden liquid.
“What exhibition?”
He handed Rosalind her glass, savored her sudden inhale as their fingers brushed. Blood pumped through his veins at the sight of the blush that crept into her cheeks.
At the very least, she was still attracted to him. Perhaps he hadn’t waited too long.
“Recovery.”
Her brows drew together as one corner of her mouth kicked up into a confused smile.
“Recovery?”
“Artwork made by recovering alcoholics.”
She paused with the glass halfway to her lips.
“What?”
“It’s a form of therapy. I didn’t know it existed until...” He paused, tried to gather his thoughts as his heart started to pound. “Until I took someone’s advice and started digging deeper into causes my parents cared about. Causes I could put more of myself into.”
He turned away from her then. Even now, after everything that had happened the past two weeks, he still felt angry. Not as acute, but certainly persistent.
“One of the art schools my mother supported was trying to start up a therapy program for a clinic that treated alcoholics.” His laugh was short, rough. “At first it felt like a cruel joke considering the accident. I wanted to walk away.”
The soft rustle of fabric sounded behind him. He sucked in a breath a moment before she laid her hand on his back.
“But you didn’t.”
“No. I wanted to.”
“My mother told me that doing the right thing when we didn’t want to made it even more important.”
