Page 69 of The Golden Scoop

“Still are…”

He raises an eyebrow, and a grin that means trouble takes over his face.

“Let me put it this way. You already look incredibly beautiful in your overalls. Messy hair. That salty, ocean breeze you seem to carry with you,” he says, voice lower than before.

He closes the gap between us, our chests brushing.

Then, he leans down to whisper in my ear.

“Tonight, you’re glowing. You’re so beautiful. You have no idea what you do to me, Emma.”

“Yeah?” I ask. Barely.

“Yeah. You don’t want to know. Can’t handle it.”

I snort. “How much have you had to drink?”

“Are you asking because you don’t believe me, or because you think you could handle it?”

Given how I’ve been around him lately, I’m not sure I could. That’s the problem.

“Don’t we have places to be?” I deflect, pushing him away gently.

He lets me. Too easily.

“We do.” He nods, composing himself. “Thank you for being my date.”

“Work date,” I correct.

“I thought you were done with those,” he teases, offering me his arm.

“It’s safer,” I reply, taking it. “You know that. You’re the brains behind the whole operation.”

“I’m starting to think safe doesn’t do us any good.”

We arrive at the Brooklyn Museum fashionably late, or how Matt explained it, right on time for the cameras to catch us getting out of the car together. I thought it would be overwhelming, but he holds me close like I belong next to him. It doesn’t take me long to start believing it.

There are some other actors I recognize, all New York-based, as well as some influential people I’ve personally never heard of before. Matt makes sure to give me a rundown before introducing me, so I don’t nod at the wrong billionaire like we’re old pals.

Soft piano music plays over the speakers, composed by a couple of kids from a school in New Jersey. The space, usually occupied with modern pieces, now holds paintings by young scholars. They are insanely good. I wouldn’t have known they weren’t professionals if that wasn’t the entire point of tonight.

It smells like polished wood floors and fresh paint, almost as if the art had just been created. The chandeliers that hang from the high ceiling shed a soft golden light over everything, making the ambience warmer than what I’m used to a museum being like.

We take our time, looking at each one—unique in style and craft. Almost in sync, we come to a stop in front of a larger canvas.

It resembles New York’s skyline, deep blue and violet strokes. A sunset in the background that feels like it’s burning between the buildings. Close your eyes and you’re right there, stuck in traffic.

“Fifteen,” Matt says quietly.

I turn to him and realize he’s been reading the plaque next to it.

“What?”

“The kid who painted this. He’s fifteen.”

“You’re joking.”

“Nope.”