Page 68 of One Wrong Move

He turns it on. Sits down on the couch next to where I’m sprawled, melting into the soft cushion from sheer exhaustion. Any second now, I feel like I’m going to topple into the blissful void.

“My eyelids are heavy,” I say.

Nate’s hand lands on my upper arm. “Don’t fall asleep.”

“I won’t,” I mumble. His touch feels good. Warm. I curl closer until my head is touching the side of his thigh. “This couch is… nice.”

He chuckles. “I won’t let you fall asleep.”

“Good,” I murmur.

“Tell me about your favorite… artist.”

“Do I have to?”

“Yes,” he says. “You have sixteen more minutes.”

I yawn and search my mind for a painter or a sculptor who can be called my favorite. Which is hard. No one has a favorite, and I open my mouth to tell him just that.

He chuckles halfway through my rambling. “I get it. Favorite is hard.”

“It’s impossible. But there’s one… It’s a bit stupid.” I yawn, my jaw cracking. “When I was… I don’t know, eight maybe? I saw this painting of a Tuscan landscape at my grandmother’s house. And I couldn’t look away from it.”

“A Tuscan landscape?” he says.

“Yes. Landscape paintings are an old staple of art history, but you won’t see them in any of the high-end galleries today. Still. The sunlight over the hills… It told a story.”

“Does your grandmother still have it?”

I nod, and stifle another yawn. “It’s my dream one day to buy… to buy another painting from that same artist. She’s still active, I’ve checked. My friends from art school would be horrified.” I chuckle a bit into my throw pillow. There are plenty of artists whose works I would love to have on my walls. Artists whose paintings are in this very house. But that one, the Tuscan landscape… It's what started it all for me.

“What do you love most about it? That painting?” Nate asks. His hand moves in a circle over my arm.

“I think it made me realize that art had a purpose. A story. That it was a window into new worlds… new perspectives. You know?” A shiver runs through me, and I draw my knees up to my chest.

Nate notices. He reaches behind him, jostling my head, and grabs the blanket. “I know,” he says and unfurls a thousand pounds of some kind of soft wool over me. Then his hand returns to my shoulder.

“I like your hand there,” I mumble into the pillow beneath my head.

“What was that?” Nate asks. He slid down on the couch, his long legs stretched out in front with his feet resting on top of the coffee table.

“I like this.”

“Mm-hmm,” he says. “Staying out all night? Going to make it a habit, Harp?”

I chuckle. That’s not what I meant. “Maybe.”

“Not to be dramatic, but you’ll give me a heart attack if this becomes your regular thing.”

I close my eyes. It hurts too much to keep them open. “We should hang out here more often. On the couch. I’ve never seen your giant TV turned on.”

Gentle glides across my shoulder, on top of the fabric. It feels like his hand.

I’m almost asleep when he finally answers. “We should. I’d suggest this week, but I’m traveling most of it.” His voice is low. A bit resigned.

The news makes me frown. “You are? Where to?”

“I have to be in Stockholm on Tuesday, and Berlin on Thursday.”

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