Page 76 of Their Princess

“But you have an eye for what these artists are trying to show.”

“Maybe.” Graff laced his fingers with mine and tugged. “This way.”

I glanced down at his big, inked hand engulfing mine and then back up to meet his gaze.

“Unless”—he raised his brows, eyes flicking up to the statue of two intertwined swirls—“you want to look at that one longer? Or this one.” He stopped before a white sculpture that looked like a bunch of swirls coming to a point at the top.

I tilted my head.

“You like the Unity design?” he asked.

I had zoned out, taking in a few moments of fresh air and the sun. “No,” I said. “I’m not even sure what I’m looking at until you explain it.”

“Oh,” Graff said with a spark of passion in his eye. “Well, there are many things you could pick out of this simple design. It could be a mother and baby swan with how the s-curve sits here.” His hand ghosted along the said curve in front of us. “Or ahuman mother picking up her child. Or perhaps a couple where one is significantly larger than the other.”

I sucked in a breath. “Did you go to school for this?”

He shook his head. “Just something I’ve picked up over the years.”

“But you don’t want to do anything with the talent?”

“You think I’m talented?”

“Of course.”

Graff smiled—a warm, inviting, and infectious smile. Like idiots, we stood there grinning at each other until it got quite uncomfortable.

“Where to next?” I asked.

Once he’d pointed out lovers with great size differences, I felt a distinct urge to move along.

Graff took me to another sculpture, streams of red reaching toward the sky. If I squinted, I could see a person dancing in flames. The hole could’ve been a thigh gap, and it could’ve been a finger pointing toward the sky. Graff let go of my hand and knelt beside the sculpture, reading the small brass plaque at the base.

“How does this one make you feel?” I asked.

A small curious smile touched Graff’s lips. “Why do you want to know?”

“Aren’t we supposed to feel something when we look at art?” At least that’s what my art appreciation teacher had told me.

“Do you feel something?”

“I asked you first.”

He looked back at the artwork, pursing his lips.

For a long moment, we stood there in silence. People passed us, looking at the sculpture and then walking on. It seemed like we should’ve been doing that too. After my initial thoughts on the red sculpture, I felt nothing.

I wondered if I stared at this long enough or thought hard enough, the sculpture would actually move.

“Not sure I can say,” he said.

I snorted. “I doubt that. I’ve seen your art. You could probably talk about anything artistic.”

He laughed at that, and warmth spread in my chest. “Thanks, but I meant critiquing art. I can point out what I see, but I can’t really say how it makes me feel.”

“Why?” I searched his face for answers.

“Other than that first piece, which fascinates me with the color play, I only see what I would’ve done differently.”

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