Page 5 of Getting Lucky in London

In the end, I’d decided to forget Michael, take advantage of the ticket, and check out some of the local artists. If for no other reason than to show my support.

Normally, that would have been enough. Art and all that it entailed fueled my passion, whether oil on a canvas or a sculpture from old car parts. Even graffiti on a train car could hold me spellbound.

Yet now that I was here, art was not what had my pulse racing. Telling myself to forget Michael was easy. Putting that sage advice into practice was altogether different.

I downed the golden bubbly in one gulp, snagged another glass from a passing server’s tray, and stopped in front of a structure of silver and blue meant to embody a waterfall. As I rocked from one foot to the other, the strips of metal took on a life of their own, the movement of the water seeming almost real.

Smiling, I glanced up at the painting in the next aisle and froze.

Michael Winters stood ten feet away, chatting with an older couple. To my dismay, he wasn’t fat, and he wasn’t bald. If possible, he was even more beautiful than he’d been eleven years ago. Tall and lean, but with enough grooves cut in hard muscle to keep a woman’s fingers busy for days. Unless they were busy playing with that trademark tawny hair. Every time he’d taken off his helmet on the sideline, I’d itched to get my hands on the unruly waves that weren’t quite brown but not blond either.

The man had been a piece of art in a football uniform, but his slim-fitting black slacks outlined long slender legs, trim hips, and a good-sized bulge. A crisp white shirt hugged his chest, shoulders, and arms as if it were made specifically for him. Probably was. He came from money.

Butterflies fluttered in my belly, followed by a cold wash of fear as my gaze journeyed higher to find him…looking right at me.

Shit. Busted. I’d forgotten there was no TV screen to protect me from taking my fill of his hotness. Too far away to read his reaction, I held my breath and waited to see what he’d do.

Nothing. He did nothing.

Should I go over and say hello? No, he was with friends or maybe clients. I couldn’t interrupt, and the idea of him feeling obligated to babysit as a favor to Dominic rankled.

I took a sip of champagne, then turned away to casually stroll in the opposite direction.

Ten minutes later, I tried to focus on the showcase piece of the gallery, but all I registered was the big blob of red on a black background. It could have been anything.

I fought the urge to look for Michael. I couldn’t stand here all night, but I was afraid to turn around, afraid he’d be there, and I’d behave like the lovestruck fangirl from years ago. Or worse, he’d be gone, my last chance smothered by insecurity.

Slugging back the rest of my champagne to add to the buzz coming on, I swore it would be my last. Two was my limit, and I wanted to keep a clear head. I didn’t need any extra help getting to Stupid Town. Just the sight of Michael had me following a big arrow that blinked “Stupid” and “Spineless” in bright red letters.

Ugh.“Pathetic.”

A crackling chuckle came from beside me, and a blue-haired older woman with parchment-thin skin lifted a gnarled finger. “Pathetic, yes, and the color is weak.”

So am I.

I shook my head.Enough already.

I turned to the woman, hoping for an intelligent conversation—I wasn’t having one with myself—but the lady was already shuffling away. I hoped I hadn’t just destroyed the artist’s chance for a sale.

With a sigh, I forced my feet to move and headed to the stone sculpture to my right. Despite my resolution not to, I slid a glance in Michael’s direction. The couple was still there, but he wasn’t.

You lost him.

I darted a quick glance to the left of where he’d been, then to the right.There.

He’d joined another group of enthusiasts who were oohing and aahing over the waterfall piece, which put him about five feet closer. But he wasn’t looking at the metal sculpture. He was looking at me. In particular, at my legs.

Oh, hello.Cream dampened my panties. I’d seen that look in a man’s eyes before. He was interested. In me. Well, in my legs, because his gaze hadn’t made it back to my face yet. I could work with that. Maybe I’d get that fantasy fulfilled after all.

One of the women, a redhead in her mid-to-late forties, laid a hand on his arm, and his gaze snapped up to meet mine. He smiled that smile I’d seen after every touchdown, and my stomach did a somersault. Giving me a nod and the quirk of a sexy brow, he returned his attention to the woman.

With that look, he’d as much as said he was okay with getting caught returning my perusal and liked what he saw. A rush of heat cascaded through me as reality set in. I wasn’t going to have to seduce him. He was doing the seducing. And all he’d had to do was stand there.

Nope. Self-respect demanded that I, at the very least, make him work for it.

Semi-confident he’d do so, I meandered deeper into the gallery, letting myself enjoy and soak in the art.

It only took ten minutes for Michael to show up in the group of people three paintings away. I slipped behind a rather large sculpture with a crack in the design big enough for me to watch him through and not be seen. He carried on a conversation, but his gaze scanned the room, never lighting on any one thing or person too long.

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