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And damn if that wink doesn’t make one of the stuffiest-looking older women I’ve ever seen—wrist bag, pantyhose, and cardigan draped over her shoulders—blush.
“Here now, young lady. You shouldn’t lead such a charming man on.” She tsks at me.
I’m too dumbfounded to do anything other than gape as she walks out of the room, but not before patting Chase on the cheek like a good boy and wishing him luck.
Hands behind his back, Chase strolls farther into the room, whistling.
“What the hell was that?” Seriously. Have I transported back in time? Is feminism still a word? Can women still vote?
“Language, please, Campbell,” he mock scolds me. “You don’t want to be a further bad influence on me, now do you?”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” I huff, marching into the next room.
“Wait. You didn’t even look at these paintings.” Chase follows after me, but I keep walking through two more rooms until I find the one I want.
“Wow.” Chase stands behind me, hands resting on my shoulders. “Your happy place is with a weird dude in a white wig.”
I glare over my shoulder.
He raises his hands. “Hey, no judgment.”
“His name is Andy Warhol.”
Chase cocks an eyebrow. I huff.
“Okay, yes, he was a weird dude in a white wig.”
There’s that annoying but sexy smirk again.
“But he was also one of the most famous pop artists in America.”
“Yeah, the soup can man, right?”
I laugh, unable to hold his opinion against him. Warhol is known as the soup can man. “Yeah, the soup can is a part of it.”
Chase doesn’t say anything else, just walks the perimeter of the room, looking over the art.
I’ve been looking forward to this pop art exhibit since my first flight to New York. Watching Chase, who’s studying the Lichtensteins, Indianas, Harings, and yes, Warhols on display, I’m glad I’d waited to go.
I walk in the opposite direction, needing a smidge of distance now that I’ve taken him to someplace so meaningful to me. We pass each other once before meeting where we started.
Chase takes another glance around, lips pursed. “I’m surprised, but not surprised.”
I laugh, though it sounds unnatural. “Okay,” I draw out, not sure why I feel nervous. “Whatever that means.”
When he looks at me, his usual smirk isn’t there. “It means that sometimes you’re so focused on brand exposure, distribution, and other tactical marketing concepts, I forget that marketing as a whole is a pretty creative business. Art is a big part of it.”
I nod.
“Like that shoe display,” he continues, and I nod again at the memory. “So I’m surprised at myself for being surprised when we first walked in here. Because really, it isn’t very surprising that you’d like art. Especially pop art.” He looks across the room where Warhol’s iconic Campbell’s Soup Cans is hung in a place of honor in the middle of the main exhibit wall. “It’s like the most expensive and memorable product marketing ever.”
I’m inordinately pleased by his words. “That’s an interesting way of looking at it.”
“What? You’re saying don’t like pop art because it’s basically high-end marketing?”
“No. I mean, it is, that was the concept of pop art, after all. It conceptualizes things from popular culture: advertisements, comic books, the everyday, mainstream objects as opposed to anything elitist.” I wave toward the soup can paintings before sitting down on the bench in front of the Warhols. “But that isn’t why I like it. Or just why I like it.” I pat the seat next to me, my hand shaking slightly. It’s been a long time since I shared this part of myself with someone. It makes me excited and nervous all at once.
Chase sits, taking my hand in his. “Okay, I’ll bite. Why do you like it then?”
