Page 4 of Love Is an Art
Hot Guy tilts his head. “That’s cool.”
“I am, unfortunately, not as cool and can’t sing.” This paint-covered getup also doesn’t look remotely cool.
He leans closer and whispers, “I can’t sing either.” My heart flutters as his breath grazes my ear.
“Let’s agree to never do karaoke with them.”
“You still seem pretty cool to me.” He smiles crookedly. He has a very small chip in an otherwise perfect set of teeth. He has such chiseled cheekbones. Our glances meet.Zing.A zippy feeling races through me.Wasn’t quite expecting that.
“I’m Tessa.” I put out my hand to shake his. His grip is warm and firm.
“Zeke.” He doesn’t let go of my hand. He looks surprised too.
We stand there, gazing at each other, acknowledging this attraction.
“I’m also here with friends. And work colleagues. We all work together.” He takes back his hand. “My friend went to college with the sculptor. It’s his first major show.”
“That’s cool,” I say. “It seems impossible to break out if you’re an aspiring artist, so this is huge.”
Mr. Scammer is next to me. He’s back.
“You must be an artist.” Hot Guy gestures to my clothes.
Oh no. Scammer Guy is just standing there. Not moving up to order. He’s listening in. But I don’t want tolieto Hot Guy. But this is also my chance to hook Scammer Guy.
“Yes,” I say. “But very much a struggling one.” I’ll explain to Hot Guy later.
“What kind of artist are you?”
“A painter.”
“Any upcoming shows where I can see your work?” he asks.
“No.” I let my shoulders drop. “I’m not at that level yet.”
Ugh. I need to be pathetic for Scammer Guy, but I hate being incompetent. I handle multibillion-dollar lawsuits for Fortune 500 companies—and win. I’ll never attract Hot Guy like this. And if I do, do I want him?
Chapter two
Zeke
She’snotalawyer.Phew. Dylan thinks I’m crazy with my “never date a lawyer” stance. Given that he was “no women, love doesn’t exist” after his last breakup, before he met his fiancée, he has no right to talk. “No lawyers” is targeted. Feasible.
Not that her occupation wasn’t clear from her paint-bespeckled shirt. Odd choice for a night out. But preferable to pearls and suits.
She has mesmerizing, blue eyes and wavy, blonde hair.What am I doing?
I came here to hang out with Ben and Dylan—definitely not to pick up women. I’m on a break. But no harm in making a female friend and chatting about what it’s like to be an artist. Something that I at least have peripheral experience with.
“My dad is a writer,” I say. “There’s so much rejection. I wouldn’t be able to take it.”
“Art has so much rejection.” Tessa sighs. “Is he published? What does he write?”
“Yes. Mysteries.”
“That’s amazing. I love a good mystery, deciphering the clues to figure out who did it.”
“It is cool,” I say. “Especially when he’s in the middle of plotting, and Post-it notes are all over the wall of his office. It looks like a crime scene board.”
