Page 106 of Black Ties and White Lies

“I was thinking that it looks like a piece of art itself.”

He’s silent next to me. So quiet that if I didn’t physically feel his presence next to me, I’d be worried that he ditched me.

“I love that part of it. That even though it houses art inside of it, that it wants to steal the show itself with the sleek architecture,” I continue.

“What do you notice about the architecture?”

“It’s a mix of different styles. It’s modern with the glass, but still very classic and traditional with the lines of the building.” I smile bashfully as he remains quiet next to me. “I’m probably not making any sense. I just meant I love the fact that it’s like you can’t put the building in one category. It stands out next to everything else here in Manhattan. I love it.”

When I get the nerve to look over at Camden, I find him watching me with a quirked eyebrow. “You’re the first person to everreallyget my vision for it.” He turns to look at the building in front of him. The way he stares at it so proudly warms my heart. One day I hope to look at my own art in a gallery the same way he looks at the gallery that houses all the art.

“Well, the first person to get it without me having to explain it to them first,” he adds.

I turn to face him, taking a deep breath to calm my nerves. “I’m honored. But I think it’s cool that people could also get other vibes from it. That’s the whole idea of art, right? It’s subjective. Art is in the eye of the beholder and all…”

His eyes flick to the bag on my arm. Or more specifically, the rolls of my own artwork that peek out of it. “Let me guess, you’re an artist.”

I shrug. At least it seems like he hasn’t caught on that I’m the fiancée to his best friend. Or if he had caught on, he hasn’t let it slip. “It’s the beanie that gives it away, isn’t it?”

He lets out the smallest of laughs. It’s quiet but confident. “Definitelythe beanie.”

“Does your art suck?”

I’m taken aback by the bluntness of his words. I fumble with my words for a moment before I get out something coherent. “I’d like to think it doesn’t.”

He narrows his eyes at me. “What is it about you?”

“I uh…”

He talks over me, clearly not actually wanting an answer to his question. “Never do I stop and talk to anyone. Small talk gives me hives. But something about the way you looked at the building had me stopping.”

His head tilts to the side as he looks over my shoulder to the transport tube I have with one of my pieces in it. “Do you have your work with you?”

“Yes,” I rush out, maybe a little too eagerly.

Camden takes a step toward the building. “I’ve got a private client meeting in an hour. You can show me your work. If it sucks, I’ll tell you, so if you aren’t up for criticism, turn around now.”

All I do is nod.

And just like that, I have my in. I almost blow it because it takes me a few long, drawn out seconds to come up with a response.

Is this really happening?

Finally, I nod my head enthusiastically, almost tripping over my feet in the process. “I’d love that,” I say hurriedly.

“Don’t ever tell anyone about this,” he barks, heading towards the building. “The last thing I want is for people to show up and bother me.”

He doesn’t give me a chance to respond. His long legs have him already a good amount ahead of me. I scurry after him, not wanting to miss my chance.

Camden Hunter is about to look at my work.

Holy. Shit. Balls.

I stepout of the rental car, pressing my phone to my ear as I look up at the building in front of me. “How’s she doing?”

Ezra sighs on the other line. “Not great, Mr. Sinclair. She’s out for a walk right now, but she isn’t herself.”

“She’s walking alone?”

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