I arrived at the Chazen Museum an hour before the lecture and spent the extra time looking at the exhibits. I was still a little nervous about the evening, but in a good way. After two days of wrestling with the whole issue, I’d firmly told myself that I liked Professor Dean West and I was looking forward to seeing him outside of Jitter Beans. It was exactly the kind of nice, normal evening that I wanted.
A large crowd filled the lecture hall of the museum, the buzz of conversation fading as a woman came out to announce the other museum events and introduce Professor West. I was sitting in the fifth row, and my heart gave a little leap when he approached the podium and began speaking.
Warm and rich, Dean’s voice flowed over the audience and seemed to settle in the core of my being. I welcomed the opportunity to stare at him without reservation, drinking in the sight of him in a crisp, navy suit and striped tie, his hair burnished by the lights.
I remember him talking about a medieval church in France, the structure of a town, Roman sculptures, but more than the subject matter I was enraptured by the sound of his deep voice, the authoritative way he spoke and discussed the images on the screen behind him. I loved the gracious way he answered questions and listened to people’s comments. I loved that he knew so much.
There was a reception after the lecture was over, and people kept vying for the distinguished professor’s attention. I drank a glass of cherry-flavored mineral water and ate about twenty grapes before I finally found a chance, and worked up my courage, to approach him.
He gave me an easy smile, one that made my heart flutter.
“Hello, Olivia,” he said. “I’m glad you came.”
“So am I. It was a really interesting lecture.”
“Thanks.” He curled his hand beneath my elbow in a gesture that seemed utterly natural. I felt the warmth of his palm through my sleeve, and this time I didn’t pull away. I didn’t want to.
“I need to go and thank the curators,” Dean said, his voice a low rumble over my skin. “Then if you’re free, we can go somewhere. Will you wait for me?”
I nodded. I thought he might be the only man I would ever wait for.
After ten minutes, he returned and we went to get our coats from the coatroom. Dean held out my coat while I slipped into it.
I reached back to tug my hair from the collar, but he got there first. His fingers brushed the back of my neck as he eased my ponytail free of the coat. A waterfall of shivers ran down my spine, and my breath caught in my throat.
“Thanks.” I quickly stepped away from him, ducking my head as I fastened the buttons.
“Sure.” A slight tension ran through his voice.
Shit. I turned back to him and forced a smile. “So where should we go?”
“There’s a place over by the Capitol where we can get a drink or something to eat,” he suggested, hitching up the collar of his coat. “We can walk, if you don’t mind that it’s a little cold.”
“I don’t mind.”
He seemed to make a conscious effort not to touch me as we left the museum. I felt like I should apologize, knowing I was sending him mixed signals, but I didn’t know how to without getting into treacherous waters.
We walked the length of State Street to a restaurant called The White Rose situated in a corner of the square. He held open the door of the restaurant for me, then spoke to the hostess. She smiled at him and led us past a crowd of waiting customers to a secluded, linen-covered table in the corner.
“How’d you manage that?” I asked as Dean pulled my chair out for me.
“Magic.”
I didn’t doubt it. One look from him probably turned the hostess into a puddle of goo.
“Actually…” He flashed me a grin. “Reservation.”
Nice that he’d planned in advance where we would go. Made me feel like he’d been thinking about me.
The waiter handed us leather-covered menus. Shadows and candlelight cascaded over the intimate tables, voices rose in a low hum, silver clinked against china plates.
I studied Dean as he looked at his menu. The flame of the candle cast warm, dancing light over his face, illuminated the flecks of gold in his chocolate-brown eyes. The perfect, smooth knot of his tie nestled at the hollow of his throat. A swath of hair tumbled over his forehead. I curled my fingers into my palm against the urge to brush it back, to feel the sweep of the thick strands beneath my hand.
Was he the one?
I had no illusions of great love and romance. I never had. My mother’s relationships with men were restless and sometimes violent. I’d learned early on that it was easier not to count on anyone.
But during the past few years, I’d come to certain conclusions about myself and relationships. I wanted to learn how to trust a man. I wanted to know what true, physical pleasure felt like. I wanted to find the courage to be vulnerable on my own terms, as my own choice.
No, I hadn’t expected to find that man anytime soon, but I had an unnerving feeling he might be sitting across from me now.
Dean looked up and caught me staring. His gaze held mine. Electricity crackled in the air between us, sparking red and blue. Heat flooded my cheeks.
“Sorry,” I whispered.
Confusion creased his forehead. “For what?”
“For being… weird.”
His smile flashed. “I happen to like weird.”
“Well, then, you hit the jackpot with me,” I muttered.