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CHAPTER 9
Miller
I wakeup before Denise and quietly slip out of bed and make my way to the kitchen.
I prepare the mixture for French toast as the bacon cooks in the oven. I smile to myself at the thoughts of last night. The perfect dinner, leading to the perfect evening and waking up in the morning next to her with the sunlight filtering through the curtains of my bedroom.
I’m drenching the bread in the mixture, the delicious smell of vanilla wafting into my nose when two arms wrap around my middle. As her cheek presses against my back, I feel a smile spreading across my face.
“Good morning, beautiful,” I say to her.
“Hi,” she says, her voice soft with affection.
“How did you sleep?” I ask, pulling a piece of French toast off the stovetop and turning to envelop her in an embrace.
She nods, “I did. Last night was incredible.”
I smile wide, a spark of excitement flowing through my body. “I’m glad to hear that,” my voice was husky with desire. “Because I have something planned for us today before I have to leave.”
“What are we going to do?” she asks.
“You’ll just have to find out later. But first, I hope you like French toast and bacon.”
“It’s one of my favorites.”
In a matter of moments, I organized the breakfast table, placing plates of fruits, bacon, and a tall stack of French toast. We sit facing each other at the table, hand in hand, once everything is in its place.
Steppingout into the crisp morning air, the car takes us to the Museum of Modern Art. We step out onto the curb and look up at the massive building with the city waking up around us. The streets are alive with the murmur of commuters and the distant hum of traffic, but in our bubble, nothing breaking the spell that we’re under.
“What are we doing here?”
“We’re going to go inside.” I return.
“Inside the museum? But isn’t it closed?” she looks back and forth between me and the building.
“It is, but I know the curator. We went to school together, and he owed me,” I shrug.
“He owed you?” she mocks.
“I introduced him to his wife.”
“How nice of you.”
“C’mon. We have limited time before the place opens up.” I pull her hand as we walk up the steps.
Entering the museum, we’re greeted by the scent of fresh paint and the soft echo of footsteps on polished floors. I look over at Denise and her eyes are sparkling with excitement as we embark on our journey through the galleries. Each piece of art is a portal into another world.
As we’ve wandered from room to room, I can see Denise get lost in the vibrant colors and bold strokes of the artwork that surrounds us. Each piece speaks its own language, evoking emotions that can’t quite be put into words.
Our footsteps echo softly against the gallery walls as we meandered through the exhibits, lost in our own world. Time seemed to slip away unnoticed, swallowed by the vast expanse of artistic expression in an empty space.
Yet, as our time comes to a close at the museum, staff are arriving for their shifts and the jangle of keys threatens us with facing the public, I’m reminded that I’m leaving for a few days when all I want to do is to be around her. As we emerge into the daylight, the city streets are bustling with activity. Hand in hand, we walk down the stairs to the car, waiting for us at the curb.
We’re sitting in the backseat, our knees touching as the car heads to the airport, which Denise doesn’t notice until we’re at the terminal.
“Wait, how am I going to get home?” she asks, looking between me and the sidewalk.
“Jerry will drive you home.”
