Page 70 of Out of Control

“I know. Do you have a name for it yet?”

“For what? The gallery?”

He nods. “That is what we’re talking about, isn’t it?” he asks with a heavy dose of sarcasm.

“Not yet, no. I have dozens of ideas but none of them grab hold of me. I want something meaningful. Something that reminds me how far I’ve come. Something that’s . . . perfect.”

“Makes sense.” He rests his hand on my knee and squeezes. “When it comes to you, you’ll know it right away.”

I purse my lips. “I know.” I just wish it would come to me sooner rather than later.

He takes a bite and chews as he contemplates the space. “I think your Midnight Madness painting will fit perfectly right there in the middle—with a spotlight on it. With the front doors open, customers will have a straight view to the back of the store where it’s showcased. They’ll need to see more of it so they’ll move farther inside and have no choice but to take in the rest of the art. It’s a great setup.” He stops and tilts his head. “What? Why are you looking at me like that?”

“You remembered the name of the painting.”

“Of course, I did.” He shrugs. “I even looked it up. It’s . . . expressive.”

“Expressive?”

“Mm-hmm. Like each person who looks at it will draw something else from it.”

“I swear you know more about art than you’re letting on.”

His expression falters ever so briefly. “Nothing more and nothing less than the average person does.”

“Your nonna didn’t share her love with you?” I question, thinking about the scrawled notations in the art books at his house. The ones I’d love to look at again but feel like I’m snooping if I do.

“An appreciation, maybe.” He nods and changes the subject. “Any luck with procuring the painting?”

I snort at the frustrating week I’ve had. “No. None at all. I tried—because that’s just me—but like I said before, the artist doesn’t seem to want any attention. He’s not responding, and I’ve left inquiries everywhere. His agent. Emails. Smoke signals.” I chuckle and take a sip of the red wine Rossi brought with him and smile that only Oliver Rossi would bring red Solo cups for a one-hundred-euro bottle of wine and be okay with it. “Showcasing it was a pipe dream. I need to get over it and move on so I can get this place ready.”

“It’s always good to have a backup plan.” He taps his cup against mine. “Like me for instance. If you weren’t here, I had a plan to wear a disguise and have a car take me to your place so no one would recognize me.”

I laugh. “No, you didn’t.”

“Want to bet?” He leans over on one hand so that he can press his lips to mine. “I wasn’t going another minute without seeing you.”

Swoon. And not just everyday swoon but more like I need to sag against this wall to keep me standing type of swoon because the way he inserts comments like that into normal conversation should be illegal.

“No complaints here.”

“Good. I’m glad.”

“You had a great race,” I say. For some reason I want him to know I care about his passion too. That his work matters to me as well.

“No complaints on my end. We had a good team showing.”

“The adjustments you suggested Cruz have made to his wing have continued to help him.”

“As I expected it would.” His focus is on the food now, and I don’t know if that’s on purpose or just because he’s hungry.

“Why’d you help him?” I ask. There’s a hitch in his movement but it’s so very slight. “My papá was rude to you and yet you went back again this race and told Cruz what you thought should be tweaked.”

“He told you?” His eyebrows narrow.

I nod. “Your dislike is beginning to look a lot closer to like.”

Just like my lust is beginning to look a lot more like . . . whew.