Page 9 of The Art of Loving You

“Not yet,” he interrupted gently. “Trust me.”

With his hand lightly on my elbow, he guided me forward. The pavement gave way to the wooden planks of a dock, shifting slightly beneath my heels. My steps slowed instinctively, but his steady grip reassured me.

“Almost there,” he murmured, his voice close enough to send a shiver down my spine.

Finally, he stopped. “Okay. You can take it off now.”

I reached up, pulling the mask away—and my breath caught.

A sleek yacht stretched out before me, its soft deck lights glowing against the deepening dusk. The polished teak and chrome accents reflected the warm hues of the setting sun. At the foot of the ramp, a small crew stood waiting, their uniforms crisp and professional.

“Lucas,” I whispered. “This is…”

“Impressive? Charming? Over the top?” he teased.

“All of the above.”

The captain approached, tipping his cap. “Good evening, Mr. Devereux, Ms. Blake. Welcome aboard.”

Lucas guided me up the ramp. The deck was set with an intimate dining table for two, draped in white linen, illuminated by candlelight. Plates were arranged with an exquisite seafood spread, the aroma making my stomach rumble.

“This is…” I trailed off, at a loss for words.

Lucas pulled out a chair for me. “A night to remember. That’s the goal.”

As the yacht glided smoothly into the bay, I settled into my seat. Every bite of the meal was perfection—tender lobster and delicate side dishes paired expertly with the wine. But as exquisite as the food was, I found myself more captivated by Lucas.

He was charming, yes, but there was something beneath the surface—an ease, a warmth I hadn’t noticed before. His sharpwit and quick humor kept me laughing, but the way his eyes lingered on mine told me he wasn’t just trying to impress me.

“So,” he said, swirling his wine. “Did I succeed in surprising you?”

I smiled. “You did. And then some.”

We clinked glasses, the gentle sound echoing against the backdrop of the bay. The yacht rocked gently, the rhythm soothing as the evening unfolded. For the first time in what felt like forever, I allowed myself to relax. A light breeze carried the scent of salt and sea, cooling the warmth of the wine still lingering in my chest.

Lucas leaned closer. “You mentioned something at the café that caught my interest. This Chagall piece you’re hunting down—The Village. What’s the story there?”

I tilted my head. “It’s like chasing a ghost. It exists—or existed—but it’s shrouded in so much mystery that even finding a trace feels impossible.”

“And yet, you’re determined,” he said, lip curling into a sideways smile.

“Of course.The Villageisn’t just a painting. It’s a story. Every brushstroke, every layer, tells something about the time it was created, about Chagall’s life, and maybe even about the people who owned it afterward. That’s what fascinates me—the history, the connections.”

Lucas nodded slowly. “I’ll call my friend at The Met. See if he has anything that might help.”

A grin spread across my face. “Really?”

“For you? Yeah.”

He leaned back before I could thank him, pointing across the bay. “See that high-rise? The penthouse? That’s me.”

I blinked. “You live there?”

He nodded. I leaned closer, my voice teasing. “Are we going there after this?”

Lucas arched a brow, opening his mouth as if to reply—but I beat him to it.

I reached out, brushing my hand against his cheek. “Lucas,” I murmured, “you’re full of surprises tonight.”

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