True Art

Chapter Two

REMINGTON'S POV

The young man and I sat in silence, and I stole some more glances as he scribbled in a black notebook with creamy white pages. I couldn't see what he was doing, but it looked as though he was sketching something.

The waitress returned, setting down the tasty treat before me.

"Thank you." My skin was burning from the intense sun and I unbuttoned the cuffs on my yellow shirt, rolling up the sleeves.

"Do you drink it black?" the smooth voice broke the silence. "Your coffee? I always drink mine black too. No sugar. I'm sweet enough." A cheeky grin spread across his chiseled face, highlighting those dimples, and suddenly I felt even hotter. He was so unusual, his features angular, with a Roman nose and bow-shaped lips. He was practically regal.

"I usually drink almond milk. But they didn't have any when I asked earlier," I replied, crossing my legs and angling myself even more towards this strange man that seemed intent on striking up a conversation with me.

"Are you on holidays?" he said, before taking a bite of his bagel.

"No, not on holidays. I work here, in the city. But I'm from County Wicklow. What about you? Are you on holidays?"

"I wish. Holidays are out of my paygrade. I'm living here, sort of." He turned right around in his chair, so he was facing me completely. The movement caused me to lean back a little, and I felt my neck flush hot under my shirt.

"Sort of?"

The young man leaned closer, animated and cheerful as he continued. "It's complicated. I'm staying with friends at the moment while I try to get my career off the ground. Ever wonder whether your career, the only thing you're good at doing, is actually the one thing that's going to be the death of you?"

Hmm, he is full of questions. Deep ones. Christ, this was a lot for a random chat with a man who's name I still don't know.

"I know what you mean. I travel a lot for work, so I'm gone more often than I'm here and most of my time is spent in airports and hotels. I'm supposed to be working right now."

"What do you do? Are you famous?"

I noted the young man's raised eyebrows over his sunglasses, clearly intrigued and it occurred to me that I couldn't remember the last time someone seemed that interested in knowing anything about me.

"I'm an international art dealer."

He seemed to consider that for a second and then started laughing. There it was again, that strange heat sizzling through me as his warm laughter rose between us.

"I think the universe is fucking with me." He grinned and stretched in his chair, his t-shirt riding up and displaying a flash of smooth skin above the band of his jeans. I looked away quickly and refocused. Well, I tried to refocus. It was getting more difficult by the second.

"What do you mean ‘fucking with you’?"

His lips were set in a beautiful curve, and those dimples, well, they were something else.

"I just mean that I've spent the entire morning calling into galleries with my portfolio and nobody was available or even faintly interested. And then I sit here, and you happen to be an art dealer. It's like God saw an opportunity to really rub it in."

"Hmm. Are you always so pessimistic? So, you're an artist then? What kind of art do you make?"

He shrugged and finished his bagel, wiping away the crumbs from his lips with long graceful fingers. Whatever he did it wasn't manual work looking at those delicate hands.