Page 26 of Finding Out

Eager to correct her assumption, I kept my focus on the road and said, “I think you’re stunning, intelligent, creative, competent as hell, and sexy as fuck. You’re blowing me away, baby girl.”

Her sharp intake of breath was loud enough to hear over the music.

Anger flitted through me. Not because of her, but because she was truly shocked by my statement. How was it that men hadn’t been praising her for these things night and day? Fucking morons.

I lifted our joined hands and pressed my lips to the back of hers.

When she didn’t say anything else, I changed the subject, going with a topic I knew would get her talking.

“Is there anything good coming up for auction tomorrow?” Besides the event where Christian’s sister sold a few pieces, I hadn’t attended any auctions at the Boston Auction House. But I had the ability to bid remotely.

With a smile, Wren launched into a long explanation that she’d clearly crafted for the patrons who would attend tomorrow. If I’d looked at the email I’d received this month, I’d probably know all this information. But this was not what I’d meant.

“Now that you’ve gone through all the auction house’s lines about the paintings, want to tell me whatyouthink?” I glanced over at her, wondering whether she’d claim that she’d been the one to craft the email—that what she’d told me was exactly what she thought—or whether she’d give me her honest opinion. I was hoping for the latter.

“Well.” She cleared her throat and shifted. “I worked to get three of the pieces on this block.” She rubbed her free hand over her thigh, tempting me to stare at her long legs. Damn, they looked good in those heels. It wasn’t often I got to actually appreciate her body. Normally I had to ignore her.

“Road, Daddy Wilson.” She chuckled. “Watch the road.”

I rolled my lips and arched a brow not minding for one second that she caught me. I liked her knowing I enjoyed watching her. Much theway I enjoyed appreciating a work of art, I enjoyed taking in every angle of Wren Jacobs.

“I’m a multitasker. You can trust me.” I fought the smile playing at my lips. “So the art?”

“Yes.” With a clipped nod, she tucked a piece of dark hair behind her ear. “An abstract painting by an up-and-coming artist from the Savannah area. I’m not personally a huge collector of the abstract, but mark my words, ten years from now, everyone is going to know who Brice Meadows is.”

“Interesting.” I wasn’t big on the abstract either, but if she thought this artist had potential, then I’d look at it or maybe some of his other work, even if it was only as an investment.

“Then there is a Degas.” She frowned. “I’d hoped it was in better condition, but it’s been reframed too many times. And,” she shrugged, “it’s much smaller than I thought it’d be. Regardless, the name alone means it’ll sell.”

“Would you buy it?”

She hummed thoughtfully. “No. It’s going to sell for more than it’s worth, considering the condition. Unless you love the work, it’s not a good investment.”

“Will there be any pieces up that you would buy?”

She ran her teeth over her bottom lip as she considered the question.

“Bridge of Snow.” Her words were quiet but filled with excitement. “It’s a watercolor. I tracked the original down to an artist in rural Maine. I’d seen a print of it; the blend of colors is amazing. The way that painting makes my heart feel the silent peace of the storm and also the bubbling excitement of a snow day is awe-inspiring.” Her cheeks went pink as she gushed. Passion looked sexy as hell on her.

I squeezed her hand and gave her a half smile.

“I can’t buy any of them. But if I could, that would be the one.”

Bridge of Snow. I locked that piece of information away.

“How can you hate this song?”No one hated Britney Spears. “She’s a classic.”

“Twenty-five-year-old me was literally driven ‘Crazy’ by my daughter with this song.” He smirked, proud of his bad pun.

“Wow, someone has dad jokes,” I teased.

His eyes cut to me. “I am a father.”

My mouth fell open, and I grabbed my chest, feigning shock. “What? Why didn’t you tell me?”

His cocked brow said he wasn’t impressed with me. “Does it bother you that I’ve done the kid thing already?”

“No.” Our age difference didn’t bother me. If he wasn’t Avery’s father, I’d be hoping for something more than a weekend fling out of whatever was happening between us. “I don’t want kids of my own, so someone who’s moved past that point in their life is a nice change.” I couldn’t count how many times people, even my parents, had tried to convince me that I’d change my mind about kids someday.

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