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“Is it hot in here, or is it just me?” I fan myself dramatically, watching Garrett's eyes follow the movement.
The air in the gallery suddenly feels thick, oppressive. Beads of sweat form on Garrett's forehead, and I feel a trickle down my own spine.
Garrett clears his throat, tugging at his collar. “The AC must be malfunctioning. I'll have to get that fixed before your show.”
He shrugs out of his suit jacket, draping it over his arm. The white dress shirt underneath clings to his muscular frame, and I have to force myself not to stare.
“Tell me about your vision for the show,” he says, his voice strained.
I step closer, close enough to catch the scent of his cologne. “Art needs to make people feel things, Garrett. To awaken their senses, to make their pulses quicken.”
His eyes meet mine, and for a moment, I see a flicker of something primal there. But he quickly looks away, running a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair.
“Your passion is admirable,” he says, his voice low. “But we need to consider the logistics of the space.”
“You're right,” I concede, moving even closer. My arm brushes his as I set my laptop on a nearby table. “That's why negative space is crucial in any exhibition. The absence of something can be just as powerful as its presence, don't you think?”
I look up at him through my lashes before continuing. “The anticipation of what might be there...”
Garrett's eyes darken, but he manages to keep his voice steady. “What kind of pieces are you planning to display?”
I suppress a smirk as I pull up a picture of a sculpture from the show. It's an abstract form, all curves and hollows, reminiscent of the human body. “The theme of the show is all about exploring forbidden desire, the exquisite agony of wanting something you can't have.”
Garrett's eyes widen slightly, and he tugs at his collar again. “Indeed,” he manages, his voice strained.
“I've always been fascinated by how colors can affect our emotions, our physical responses,” I continue innocently. “Take red, for instance. It's the color of passion, of heat. It can make your heart race, your skin flush.”
He clears his throat, and I notice a faint flush creeping up his neck. “Yes, fascinating.”
“And blue,” I press on, emboldened by his reaction. “Cool and calming. Unless it's the intense blue of someone's eyes. Then it can be electrifying.”
Garrett's jaw clenches, and I can see him fighting to maintain his composure. “Skylar, perhaps we should focus on more practical aspects of the exhibition.”
“Oh? I thought we were,” I say, turning to face him fully. “Understanding how to evoke specific responses in the audience is what it's all about, after all, isn't it?”
Our bodies are inches apart. The tension between us is a living thing, pulsing and growing with each passing second.
“Art is all about provoking feelings,” I say, boldly reaching out to straighten his tie.
Garrett's eyes darken, his gaze flickering to my lips. “This is hardly appropriate.”
“Art is rarely appropriate.” My fingers linger on the fabric. “That's what makes it exciting.”
A bead of sweat trickles down his temple.
“Is it warm in here?” I ask innocently, fanning myself with one hand. The question hangs in the air, thick with implications and unspoken desires.
Garrett blinks, seeming to come back to himself. He tugs at his collar, his fingers brushing against the tanned skin of his neck in a way that makes my mouth water. “Yes, it does seem a bit warm. Perhaps we should take a break, get some water?”
“I agree,” I say, reaching for the top button of my blouse. “You don't mind if I...?”
Garrett nods, seemingly unable to form words. “I... That is... Whatever makes you comfortable.”
I undo the top two buttons, sighing in exaggerated relief.“Much better.”
The cool air kisses my skin, and I resist the urge to arch my back, to draw his gaze lower.
His eyes follow the movement of my fingers, trailing down the newly exposed skin like a caress.
