Page 26 of Angel Eyes

I blinked at her, startled. “Wait, you mean, you want to stay? You’re not still upset?”

She frowned, tilting her head. “No, not really. I mean, those guys were jerks for running through the museum, and I hope security escorted them out. But otherwise, I’m fine.” She gave me a small smile before squinting down at the map open in her hands.

Seriously? She seemed so upset before—why the sudden change in her mood?

An unpleasant thought slithered through my head. Maybe she had talked to her boyfriend, and he was the reason she was so at ease.

The muscles in my jaw tightened.

“You know …” She wrinkled her nose. “I’m not sure how to get down there—”

“I’ll take you.” I shoved my hand into the crook of my elbow before I could do anything stupid like reach for her again.

On our way to the Near Eastern exhibit, I listened as closely as I could while she recited her knowledge on the history of Egyptian sculpture, but admittedly, my focus was elsewhere.

Namely, on coming up with a solid plan to make sure the rest of Juliet’s visit at the museum was damn near perfect and that she had an experience she’d not soon forget.

Nine

Juliet

Sorry, I’ll have to read it another time. Not all of us are on vacation, kiddo.

I stared down at the text from Kyle, trying to make sense of what I was reading. Not that it was particularly confusing. I was just shocked at how easily he made me feel so insignificant—and in two sentences, no less.

Kiddo? Kyle was barely two years older than me, not to mention we were in the same class year at our firm since he had clerked for a district judge before becoming a full-time associate. And I wasn’t on vacation. He was just baiting me. Again.

In the few exchanges we’d had over the past week, when he wasn’t sending me two-word replies, he was prodding me with double-edged comments like this one as if he were itching for a fight. But I refused to give him one. Instead, I exercised patience, making an effort to message him updates, pictures—anything to make him feel included in my experience here.

Though, after that last text, it was becoming abundantly clear he didn’t want to be.

Glancing around the library, I pushed down my frustration and gathered up the empty snack wrappers from the table where I’d spent the day working. After a long week of attending classes, guest lectures, and writing workshops, Friday had finally arrived, and with it, the opportunity to crank out pages for my competition piece.

The idea for a short story had come to me after my trip to the Louvre on Sunday, and I’d rushed home to dust off my college notes on the Renaissance that were still saved on my hard drive.

The rebirth of art. The revival of classical literature. The rediscovery of humanism. All themes I had never contemplated outside of a classroom setting, but now saw as potential fodder for something creative. The tone of the piece would be more serious than what I usually featured in my writing. But I needed to produce something worthy of publication, and I was more than willing to go outside my comfort zone to do it.

I pulled my hair up in a messy ponytail and plopped back down in front of my laptop, tapping a finger against my mouth. After hours of churning out words, I was happy to say I’d completed a first draft. Not that it was a masterpiece, but still, I was proud of it.

Now for the challenging part: The Edit.

I’d never shown Kyle my romance novella. No doubt he would have just made fun of it. But this piece was mature and thoughtful—a story laced with symbolism and critical thinking. It seemed like something he might appreciate. Only he was too busy to read it, just like he had been too busy to answer my call on Sunday.

I racked my brain for who I could send it to for initial impressions. Grace would read it, but it might take her a while to get back to me. Ember would be willing too, but I never trusted my sister to be completely unbiased. I sank further into my chair, staring up at the overcast sky through the ceiling lined with windows.

Maybe I could read it aloud to myself? No. The truth was nothing could beat the perspective of an outside reader.

My stomach dipped as a new thought occurred to me.

Nope, no way.

Gabriel might be interested in reading my draft, but the idea of asking him made my stomach somersault, especially in light of the way I had behaved at the museum. I could only imagine how I had looked, all wide-eyed, staring at him like he was God’s gift to women. Which, okay, maybe he is. There was no point in continuing to deny that he was divinely handsome.

Clearly, it wasn’t doing me any favors.

What if I hadn’t come to my senses? What if I had touched him like I wanted to? Would I have stopped there?

I had replayed the scene over and over again in my head while lying in bed on the nights that followed. It quickly became my favorite bedtime story.

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