Page 46 of Frayed Bonds

One thing I appreciated about my new strange relationship with Ambrose is he takes things for what they are. What you give him is what he’ll accept without prying any further. He nods and draws his attention back to the painting.

Watching him, a small part of me wishes for once he would pry. That he will ask, because then at least I’ll know that he is interested.

Chapter sixteen

Ambrose

Dragging Valerie away from the art that decorates the wall of the exhibit feels like a crime against humanity. The way she looks at each piece with no judgement, it’s as if she’s letting the art tell its story without interruption. She looks at them as though standing there all night and listening would prompt them to divulge all their gritty details, and she’ll do so without any judgements.

As if the artist could have done no wrong.

As if every microscopic detail of the art is perfect, down to the way the artist signed the painting.

Valerie looks at art the way you look at someone you’re hopelessly in love with, and for some split second, I find myself wishing she would look at me in the same way. I shake the borderline insane thought out of my head, and gently place my hand against the small of her back.

“Let's go get a drink,” I say and guide her towards the bar.

“Ambrose, you made it,” a voice booms as we reach the bar and we both nearly jump at the volume.

As if a moment alone with Valerie is forbidden, of course, Diego chooses now to make his presence known.

“Diego, good to see you. I’m sure you remember Valerie,” I say looking down at the woman next to me, who has turned a similar shade of pink to the dress she has on, probably remembering the circumstances of the first night she met Diego.

“Of course.” Diego smiles broadly. “I was so happy when I heard you’d be accompanying Ambrose. With your spark, I can tell that you’ll give Ambrose a run for his money. I hope that this is a fruitful, long-term relationship for you both,” his eyes linger on me as he says the last half of the sentence.

Valerie giggles awkwardly and I nod like an idiot, not even bothering to correct him on the fact that Valerie is simply my date for the evening because I couldn't actually find another date. I’d also like to entertain the idea that there is a possibility she’ll consider us being together, even if it’s for a second.

A man clears his throat from next to Diego, drawing all three of our attention to him.

“My apologies,” Diego laughs nervously. “Ambrose, Valerie, this is Horatio. Horatio, this is Ambrose Vitale and his beautiful date, Valerie…” Diego looks over at Valerie waiting for her surname, but she’s distractedly staring off at Horatio.

I gently tap my index finger against her spine and as if jolted by lightning, she snaps back into gear. “Farina,” I answer for her.

He seems equally interested in Valerie, and I furrow my brows at the odd tension settling in the air. “Horatio is the vice president of a new French finance group on the market.

“French, huh? Horatio is quite a unique name, is your family French?” Valerie asks, and I’m surprised by her sudden interest in conversing, when a few minutes ago she was so zoned out she couldn’t even remember her own surname.

“Italian actually, but I was born in France, I’ve lived there my entire life,” he answers. “Can I buy you a drink?”

“Sure.” She smiles.

“Three whiskeys, and a Negroni for the lady.” He orders not even bothering to ask Valerie what she’d like to drink.

“Negroni Sbagliato,” I raise my voice so that the bartender can hear me, he nods nervously before disappearing.

“Thank you,” she quips in my direction as I move closer to her, placing my hand on her hip, drawing her into my side.

“I lived in Paris for the last six years, I recently moved back to Tevici,” she smiles, and the two drift into a conversation about her time in Paris.

The way they speak and look at each other is as if they've known each other for years, but at the same time, Valerie seems clueless. Her eyes are bright as the topic of art arises, and Horatio begins gushing over his business dealings with some French artist whose name sounds like a sneeze.

“I would have never pegged you for the jealous type,” Diego half whispers from beside me.

“I’m not jealous.”

Maybe a little.

Diego simply smirks like an idiot and refocuses his attention on the conversation.

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