Page 4 of All We Need

“I’d love to.”Istep closer, giving her a half smile. “Howabout over dinner?I’mdying to hear your thoughts about your favorite artists.Impressionismversus what impressionI’mmaking on you.”

Her mouth doesn’t even twitch.Noris she blushing.Weird.Asmile and a cheesy pickup line usually do the trick.Herexpression gives nothing away, butI’mnot giving up.

With a flat tone, she says, “There’sno time like the present.AndIthink the artist is due back soon.I’msure they’d love to hear your opinions.”

I’m running out of bullshit things to say andI’drather jump into the ocean than talk with some hoity-toity know-it-all.

Carefully,Ipick up a painting, admiring the orangey-pink sunset behind a city skyline that appears 3-Dwith the way the paint is layered.It’simpressive, clearly done by a professional, but that’s as far as my keen eye goes. “Notreally my thing.Kindabasic, if you ask me.”

I have no fucking idea whatI’msaying, and sweat begins to trickle down my spine.

This calls for the big guns.

Lowering my gaze to my white sneakers,Ipop out my partners in crime and raise my head to look at her.

Her features are so cold,Ishiver.Notthe normal side effect whenIflash my dimples.Theyrarely make an appearance this early on—she should be flattered.

She’s anythingbut.

The second thing to surprise me is when she rounds the table to stand on the other side.Sheprops her hands on her hips and hits me with a stony look. “I’msorry you find my work sobasic.I’lltake that criticism into consideration.”

I blink back my embarrassment and a nervous laugh slips free.

Oh, but she is far from finished.

“And for your awareness.Grisaillewas created in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries.Itis associated with oil paint, though.Goldstar to you.Now, if you’ll excuse me,Ihave to finish setting up.”Hertone is dismissive.

I’m stunned silent, which is rare.Sois making a fool of myself, and my brain spins asIthink of how to salvage this.

“Listen.”Ipull my beanie off and comb my fingers through my static hair. “Maybewe got off on the wrong foot.Yes, art is not my thing, but whenIsee a pretty girl,Ihave to speak to her.”

“Girl?”Iflooks could kill, god rest my soul.

“No, no.Notgirl.Grownwoman.Oldwoman.Shit, no, you’re not old.Actually, how old are you?”MyT-shirt sticks to my back asIdig my grave deeper with each stupid comment.Idrop my head in my hands. “Thisisn’t howIimagined it was going to go.”

A murmur of voices sounds behind us.Thegates are open, and in minutes, crowds of people will swarm this place.Lastchance, becauseMommadidn’t raise no quitter.

“Let’s start from scratch.”Ido a 360-degree turn, hold out my hand, and grin so wide my jaw is close to dislocating. “Hey.I’mBoothSadler.HeadChefatOurPlace.LocaltoSuttonBay.Happyto be your tour guide.Niceto meet you.Andyou are?”

To my surprise, there’s a tiny flare in her eyes, but it quickly disappears.Idon’t know her name, let alone how long she’s in town for, yetI’mdesperate for any crumb of detail about her.

Wait, what?No, that sounds like something my lovesick brothers would say.

“Well,Booth.”Shebrushes some lint off her shoulder. “Thishas been a pleasure, butIhave customers to serve.Takecare now.”

Twice she’s dismissed me.She’sa feisty little thing, but in a cunning way that makes me hard when it shouldn’t.

Chuckling softly,Ishove my beanie back on. “Okay, okay.Pointtaken.Letme ask you one thing.”Ilean forward and gift her with a megawatt smile and circle my mouth. “You’retelling me these did nothing for you?”

Her eyes drop, and slowly, with a manicured finger, the tip stained purple, she pokes the dent in my left cheek. “Thislittle thing?”

I smile harder.

“Hmm.I’veseen my fair share of dimples.”Shedrops her hand. “Theyreally aren’t that impressive.”

My mouth falls open, and beforeIhave the chance to shoot my shot—for what feels like the hundredth time—she busies herself with a box of canvases behind her.

I’m not sure ifIshould laugh at her candidness or cry at my expense.

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