Page 25 of Miles & Mistletoe

“The man looks to be holding a gift as evidenced by the bow tied around the box. The artist obviously chose to paint this in some abstract form since all of the larger forms are made up of boxes or squares.”

“That’s called cubism. The artist was inspired by the early twentieth century movement that began in Europe.”

I glanced back at Ian, who I expected to be reading from the placard that he’d covered up with his hand. However, I was surprised to see he wasn’t. It was as if he’d memorized the attributes of the painting and the artist’s inspiration.

I looked from this painting to one that was a few feet from it on the same wall. “Tell me about that one,” I stated, jutting my head in the direction of the painting. I unwittingly wrapped my hand around his elbow, letting him lead us both.

“This one is based in impressionism,” he began speaking of the painting.

I listened intently as he described the inspiration for the early impressionists, and how this artist that had painted an image of the space needle, utilizing the light brush strokes of early impressionism. Ian, however, wasn’t much of a fan of that artist’s work, stating it looked like a cheap knockoff. He respected the artists and their efforts, but he also wasn’t one to bite his tongue if he didn’t like something.

I don’t know what captivated me more—the work around the museum, or Ian’s voice as he described each piece we stumbled upon. That was a lie, it was Ian’s voice. It held my rapt attention, effortlessly.

“What are you planning to do after the museum showcase?” I coyly asked Ian about an hour and a half later.

“You.”

My nipples instantly pebbled and the warmth that moved through my entire core was a clear indication that I was a willing participant in his planned activities.

“Zerlinger.”

Turning, I saw the scowling face of a man who seemed somewhat familiar but I couldn’t quite place him. I brought my gaze back to Ian who was scowling back at the man standing just about even with Ian’s six-three frame.

“Aaron, stop being rude. Ian, it’s great to see you again,” a softer, female voice interjected.

I peered directly across from me and was pleasantly surprised to see a petite woman with her hand firmly tucked into the male interloper’s elbow.

“Excuse us. I’m Patience Townsend, and this is my husband, Aaron,” the woman greeted, extending her free hand to me. The friendly smile on her chestnut-toned face made her all the more endearing than her still scowling husband.

“I’m Stacia.”

“Aaron,” Patience nudged.

“Pleasure.” Her husband nodded in my direction before turning his attention back on Ian.

My body shifted when I felt Ian’s arm around my waist, pulling me into him.

“Enjoying the holiday season?” Aaron inquired, but not in a tone one would mistake as friendly.

“About as much as you are,” Ian retorted.

What the hell was with these two? They didn’t quite appear to be adversaries but their tones weren’t that of old friends either.

“I suspected you might be here tonight, Ian. I remembered how much you enjoyed the arts,” Patience added, obviously a better conversationalist than her husband.

Ian nodded. “That I do. Wouldn’t have missed this for the world.”

“Aaron either.” Patience looked up toward her husband who finally took his eyes off Ian to stare down at her. “He loves these types of things as well, though he’s loathe to admit it.”

My eyes widened in shock when the scowl on Aaron Townsend’s face softened and his eyes seemed to shine a little as he stared at his wife.

“I suspect our Kyle’s going to be somewhat of an artist himself,” Patience turned to say to Ian. “Kyle’s our oldest son,” she told me.

I nodded in understanding. “How old is he?”

“Six and a half. The half is very important.”

I giggled. “I bet it is.”

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