Page 37 of Fifth Avenue Devil

Annalise only mentioned loving modern art in passing, so I’m pretty sure this will be a complete surprise to her. I’m about to woo her so hard that I’ll sweep her off her feet… and into my bed.

Getting out of the SUV, I dash around to the other side to wait for her. When the driver opens Annalise’s door, she is fidgeting with the strip of black silk that I tied around her head to keep her from seeing where we were going.

I step in, scolding her in a joking tone. “Are you trying to spoil the surprise?”

I can’t see her eyes, obviously, but I like to imagine that she rolls them.

“No. I’m being patient.” She sighs heavily, touching the delicate strap of her gold and silver evening gown. She looks so innocent and lovely in the dress. It stirs my darker impulses. “Have we arrived?”

“Yes. But don’t open your eyes yet,” I tell Annalise. I unbuckle her and help her from the car. “I’m going to guide you inside. There are some stairs that we’ll have to ascend to get to our destination.”

Annalise clings to my arm as we head up the sidewalk and down the red carpet. We hit a short flight of stairs, heading between the khaki-colored columns that tower on each side of us.

Whisking Annalise through the entryway, I pause when we are just about to step through into the grand foyer. “Hold on.”

“As if I could do anything else,” she quips. “You’ve literally blindfolded me.”

I smirk, untying the silky piece of fabric and letting it fall from her eyes. She gasps when she sees where she is, her hands flying to cover her mouth.

“The Met??” She looks at me, eyes wide and excited. “How did you know that I love art?”

I give her a sly smile. “You mentioned it once.”

She walks into the rotunda, gazing straight up at the frosted glass ceiling. “How on earth did you convince the museum to let you in after hours?”

I follow her, enjoying her innocence. “You can do almost anything you want if you write a big enough check.”

"Good evening, Mr. Fordham," a staff member greets us as he approaches. "Welcome to the Met, Ms. Gellar. Please, follow me.”

The peculiar scent of aged wood and centuries-old canvases fills my nostrils as we move inside.

"Did you know that the Met houses over two million works of art from around the world?" I casually mention to Annalise as we stroll past the darkened galleries that are not open tonight. Their masterpieces are protected from prying eyes by velvet ropes.

“I did actually know that. I have been to the Met before.”

“And I might or might not have read that fact on the museum’s website.” My mouth curls in a smile.

“That counts.” Annalise takes my arm and looks at me with sparkling eyes. “Keep telling me museum facts. It makes me forget what an ass you’ve been to me for the last couple of weeks.”

“Will do.” I smirk, but something like pride blooms in my chest at her approval.

As we meander through the hushed halls, we’re guided by the soft footsteps of the staff member who has introduced himself as Mickey. I point out several artworks that catch my attention.

We venture deeper into the museum and our conversation flows effortlessly. With Annalise, nothing is ever stilted or a lot of work. It’s just… natural. Like it should be between a man and a woman.

The hushed silence of the museum hangs in the air around us as we continue our exploration. We walk through a gallery with entire assemblages of knights in medieval armor, beautiful faux-outdoor Japanese pagodas, and several rooms devoted to 18th-century paintings. My gaze lingers on Annalise's slight expression of awe as she studies the artwork hanging on the walls. Her wide hazel-green eyes take in everything.

One thing about Annalise, is that she is always learning, calculating, digesting information.

It’s a good trait to have in the business world. Doubly so for a CEO.

Annalise pauses at one particular painting and I stop to admire it too. It depicts a sunny day in a lush garden, filled with vibrant flowers and delicate butterflies. The style of painting is stunningly realistic. It’s hard to believe that it was painted over a hundred and fifty years ago.

Annalise studies the painting for a moment. I can see something stirring within her, underneath the surface. There's a hint of wistfulness in her gaze.

"My grandmother had a garden just like this," she shares softly. Her voice is soft and faraway. "I used to spend hours there when I was a child, exploring every nook and cranny, discovering all sorts of hidden treasures."

"Really?" I ask, genuinely intrigued by this unexpected glimpse into her past.

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