Page 63 of Wrong Score

“Fine,” he says, relenting. “But if he starts crossing a line, tell me.”

“Don’t spoil it, Townsend. I’m living out my girlhood fantasy working with an art and travel magazine—even if it’s pro bono.”

His brow lifts, but he doesn’t push further. Instead, he checks the clock and glances back at me. “So, how about something a little more in-person?”

“Oh? Out in search of Vancouver’s best English pub?”

He’s already pulling out his phone, firing off a quick text before I can even finish. “Got a better idea. Come with me.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Bex

Twenty minutes later, we’re standing in front of a small art gallery on a quiet street. The sign above reads “Harbor Art Collective,” and the look on Rowan’s face as she takes it in—it’s something I’ll hold onto.

“Bex! An art exhibit? We’re grossly under dressed for this event. Leo would be appalled,” she says, glancing down at her trousers and puffy jacket.

“You look good to me,” I say, letting my gaze sweep over her deliberately.

Rowan’s dressed casually—denim trousers, a puffy jacket, and her hair loose around her shoulders. There’s something about the way she carries it all that makes her look effortlessly beautiful. For once, it feels like we’re together for something other than work. There’s something relaxed and easy about being out with her this afternoon.

The taxi pulls to a stop, and I step out first, turning to offer my hand to help her out. Her eyes flicker to mine, a slight hesitation in the curve of her lips before she places her hand in mine.

“Thank you,” she says, her voice soft, and her hand warm.

I’m in no rush to let go, as I help her out, but as soon as her feet are firmly planted on the ground, she breaks the connection.

“Ready?” I ask, my voice steady despite the way my pulse seems to quicken every time she glances at me.

“To drool over art? Always.” She beams. “I didn’t know you cared much for galleries,” she says, her voice laced with surprise and that curiosity I’ve come to crave.

“Didn’t say I don’t care,” I tell her, opening the door and gesturing for her to go ahead. “I just don’t take art as seriously as my family does.”

Inside, the gallery is filled with bright canvases, bold sculptures, and photographs that seem to freeze time. There’s a quietness in the room that feels like reverence, and I slow my pace as I watch her take it all in. We start at the first painting and I stand to her left as a constant companion, craning my neck left to right when she does, trying to see the painting the way that she does, shifting from one painting to the next as we work down the row of well lit canvas.

There’s something almost magical about seeing Rowan here, a place where she’s in her element. As she steps closer to one of the pieces, I watch the way her eyes light up, taking in every brushstroke, every shade and shadow. It’s different from how she watches a game—this is softer, like she’s connecting with something personal.

We get to another piece, the largest one in the collection and based on the additional lighting and the fact that it’s displayed proudly by itself without any other painting near it, I venture to guess that it’s the most expensive piece here.

Rowan lights up the moment she sees it.

“See, this is the kind of painting I hope to hang in that spot in my apartment, except my apartment wouldn’t do this masterpiece justice. It should be in some beautiful home somewhere being admired daily,” she says, taking in the painting with wonderment.

The painting is called Effervescent Embrace and it already sold for a low six figures, but that doesn’t stop Rowan from admiring it. Her crystal blue eyes gaze over every inch of the colorful landscape, as if she doesn’t want to miss a single brush stroke.

“It’s like you can feel the wind in it,” I murmur, realizing the words fall out of my mouth on their own. I clear my throat, a bit embarrassed, but she only nods, a soft smile tugging at her lips.

“You can always tell when an artist poured themselves into their work,” she says, her eyes not parting with the canvas for even a second. “It’s like it’s alive.”

I glance at her, at the way she seems almost part of the painting herself. She has that same energy, that same kind of passion, and it pulls me in, stirs something deep in me I’m not sure I’m ready for.

“You’re not looking at the painting,” she says, catching me.

“I can admire it better through your eyes,” I say, and it’s true. Seeing her here, seeing her like this—it’s like I’m discovering something I didn’t know I was searching for.

She turns to look at me, searching my face for a joke, but there’s no teasing smirk on my face. I meant what I said.

“Have you ever thought about going into art journalism? LeaveThe Seattle Sunrisebehind?” I ask, remembering our conversation back at the gala.

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