Page 51 of Mistletoe Face Off

I flash her my grin. “It's got nothing to do with ice at all.”

“What is it then?”

“Do you always need to know everything?”

“Not always, but it pays to be prepared. Am I dressed right?”

Although she's currently bundled up in her winter coat and scarf, the memory of her curves encased in that dress fills my mind. “Oh, yeah,” I tell her with a waggle of my brows.

She lets out a laugh and it's too dark in the car to tell whether she's blushing or not, but I bet she is.

We arrive at the imposing entrance to the Art Institute of Chicago, and as I hold the door open for her, she gives me a questioning look.

“This is the last place I thought you’d bring me, What are we doing here?”

“Again with the questions! Just go with it, okay, Ms. Journalist?”

“Okay.”

We’re greeted by a tour guide, who produces two lanyards that say “VIP Visitor,” one for each of us to wear.

“Welcome to the Art Institute of Chicago, Mr. Clarke and Ms. Coleman,” the tour guide, whose name is Edgar, says. “We hope you enjoy your special experience with us tonight. I will be your guide for the tour.”

“Thank you, Edgar. I'm sure we will,” I say, shaking his hand.

As Holly slips her lanyard over her head she asks me, “Did you arrange a private tour for us?”

“Of course I did. You told me you were into art when you showed me that mayor’s portrait at the Hawksworth Community Center, and I figured what better place to take you in the city? I figure they’ve got loads of art here.”

The smile I win from her makes my efforts totally worthwhile. “I heard that, too. Thank you,” she says.

“Anything for you,” I reply, and as the words leave my lips I realize I would do anything for Holly. The feeling takes me by surprise, but as I look at her, with her coat unbuttoned, her lanyard around her neck, her luscious red lips, everything seems to fade away, and I see her with startling clarity. My heart’s racing, but it’s no longer the nervous kind. It’s more as though every beat of my heart pulls me closer to her, and I feel warm, almost lightheaded.

This thing between us has the potential to be big, seriously big. My feelings for this beautiful woman at my side are so much more intense than the time we've known one another should allow. But I feel it all the same.

I know it's a lot and I’m not usually the kind of guy to wear my heart on my sleeve, never falling for a woman with just a look. But with Holly, it feels different. Real. I can’t even explain it to myself, but with her, I want the world, and I’m going to do whatever I can to get it.

I take her hand in mine and the touch of her skin against mine is just as electrifying as I thought it would be. She smiles up at me, and together we follow Edgar through the impressive gallery, with its high ceilings and paintings hanging on the walls—I might not know much about art, but I knew there would be paintings on the walls in a gallery—until we come to a stop in front of an old fashioned looking painting of a woman holding a baby.

“This work is by Botticelli. It's calledMadonna and Child,” Edgar tells us. “It depicts the Virgin Mary and her son.”

“So, it’s not Madonna the pop singer?” I joke.

“No, sir,” Edgar replies, totally straight-faced, and I notice Holly biting back a smile.

At least one of them knows I’m kidding.

“There’s an intriguing detail in this painting, as you will see,” Edgar continues. “The book the Madonna is holding is believed by some to be a popular devotional text from the Middle Ages, but the words are legible, and are in fact a passage from Dante's ‘Divine Comedy.’”

“How interesting,” Holly replies.

“Are we meant to know what either of those things are?” I ask her under my breath.

“Just go with it,” she tells me with a smirk. “I’ve always loved this piece. Botticelli’s paintings are so serene and yet filled with passion.”

“They are indeed,” Edgar replies, pleased at least one of us knows something about this painting.

We reach our next painting, which Edgar tells us is calledA Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatteby an artist called Georges Seurat.

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