I’ve been told I wear all of my emotions plainly on my face…
“You also think I act like I own the school.”
“Um, you literally do.”
“My family does,” he corrects.
I roll my eyes. “Whatever.”
“You’re sassy today, Bird.”
“When you push yourself into my personal business, it makes me sassy.” I tap my pencil against my notebook. “Are we going to actually work on this project today?”
“Yeah. Let’s do it.” He leans back in his chair, his gaze still on me. “I want to interview you.”
Unease sweeps over me, setting me immediately on edge. “How about I interview you instead?”
“No.” He shakes his head. “I came up with a few questions last night. Things I’d love to know about you.”
Why do his words sound more like a threat? “Trust me. I’m not going to reveal everything about myself to you.”
“I thought that was the point of this project.”
“You’re supposed to be analyzing me. Trying to figure me out versus me just giving you all the information you want,” I remind him.
“You always have a way of making everything extra difficult, don’t you.” He doesn’t phrase it as a question.
His words sting and I hate that. “Fine. Ask your questions.”
Crew grabs his phone and opens it to the notes section, scanning whatever he wrote there, his brows drawn together. I take the opportunity to stare at him, taking in his chiseled features. The sharp jawline and soft lips. The strong nose and angled cheekbones. The thick brows and icy blue eyes. His face is like a work of art, something you’d find in a painting from hundreds of years ago. A callous aristocrat, clad in tights that showed off his muscular legs, a heavy velvet coat to show off his opulent wealth.
He would’ve fit in then as he fits in now. What’s that like, knowing your place? Being so confident in it?
I thought I knew, but ever since this project started, I’ve been thrown off. Feeling out of sorts.
“Okay.” Crew’s deep voice pulls me from my thoughts and I refocus on him. “Do you have any hobbies?”
“Such a general question.” Wait, am I teasing him?
“It’s a solid way to find out what you like.”
He’s got a point.
“I like to travel.”
“Where have you been?”
“Lots of places. All over Europe. Japan. I went to Russia a few years ago.”
“And how was that?” I notice he’s not taking notes.
Hmm.
“I went with my parents for an art exhibition there.”
“Right. They’re massive collectors.”
“Yes. My mother has become an expert in the art world. She’ll travel anywhere just to get a piece she’s had her eye on. We went to Russia in February a couple of years ago. It was freezing. We got stuck there for days because they kept canceling the flights due to weather,” I explain.
“Did you like Russia?”
“It was beautiful, but so terribly cold. The sky was this steely gray and it never changed. Maybe during a different season, I would appreciate it more.”
He actually types something in his notes and I wish I knew what he wrote. “What else do you like to do?”
“I like to read.”
His gaze flickers to mine. “Boring.”
“You can’t have the kind of grade point average we have without doing a lot of reading too,” I point out.
“True. I don’t read much for pleasure though.”
It’s how he uses the word ‘pleasure,’ and the way he says it, that makes me think of…
Things.
Wicked things.
What does he do for pleasure?
“What else, Birdy?” he asks, his voice quiet. Probing.
“I like art,” I admit.
“What kind?”
“All kinds. When you’re dragged to various art galleries your entire life, you start to appreciate what you see. Pieces eventually start speaking to you. Suddenly you have a growing list of artists you admire.” A sigh leaves me. “I resisted at first. I never wanted to go to museums or art galleries. I thought they were boring.”
“When you’re little, that’s what they are. Extremely boring,” he says.
“Exactly. I started appreciating it more when I was thirteen. There are pieces I fell in love with.” A smile teases the corner of my lips. “There’s one in particular I discovered a couple of years ago that’s my absolute favorite.”
His eyes light with curiosity. “What is it?”
“Oh, it’s nothing.” I should’ve never admitted that. He wouldn’t care. Not really. “Just a piece I found myself drawn to.”
“Tell me about it,” he urges, and I hurriedly shake my head.
“It’s boring.”
“Come on, Wren.”
Even though he sounds completely exasperated with me, it’s his use of my actual name that prompts me to keep talking. “It’s a piece that was created in 2007 by an artist who explores a lot of mediums and uses a variety of materials. When he created my favorite piece, I read that he was still a drug addict.”
“A drug addict? That sounds against your moral code, Birdy.”
“He’s clean now. People misstep sometimes. None of us are perfect,” I say with a shrug.
“Except for you.” He smirks at me. “You’re the most perfect girl on this campus.”
“Please. I’m definitely not perfect,” I stress, hating that he would think I am. It’s hard living up to everyone’s standards. My parents. My teachers. The girls at school who look up at me. Even the people who think I’m ridiculous.
He completely ignores what I said. “What does this piece look like?”
I sit up straighter, excited to explain it. “It’s a giant canvas covered in kisses.”
“Kisses?”
“Yes. He had the same woman kiss the canvas in varying shades of Chanel lipstick.” I smile when Crew frowns. “She’d kiss the canvas in a different way every single time. Harder. Softer. Her lips open wider, or pursed close together.”
“Okay.”
“It’s originally untitled, but it’s known in the art world as ‘A Million Kisses in Your Lifetime.’ My father tried to buy it for me as a surprise for my birthday last year, but whoever owns it now won’t part with it. And there’s another piece that’s similar, but you can’t find that one either.”
“How much is the one you want worth?”
“A lot.”
“Define a lot. That could mean a variety of amounts.”
“When it went to auction, it sold to a private collector for over five hundred thousand dollars.”
He makes a scoffing noise. “Easily bought.”
“Not when the owner won’t sell. To them, it’s priceless.” I grab my phone. “Do you want to see it?”
“Sure.”
I open Google, and in less than a minute, I have the piece brought up on my screen. Just seeing it makes my heart ache in a good way. In that visceral sense, where something calls to you, touching a part of you buried deep.
I’ve never been kissed, but I can only imagine what it would be like, to kiss a man and leave your lipstick on his mouth when you’re done. That seems so…
Romantic.
“Here it is.” I hold my phone out to Crew and he takes it, studying the piece for long, quiet seconds. “What do you think? Can you see how it almost undulates? The artist had the woman press her lips to the canvas in precise spots to create the illusion.”
“I see it,” he says as he squints at my phone screen.
“Isn’t it beautiful?” My voice is wistful, as it tends to get when I talk about my favorite piece of art. It’s still such a disappointment that the work isn’t mine. My father tried so hard to make it the starter piece for my own collection.
When he couldn’t get that one, he purchased another piece by the same artist. It’s lovely, but not the one I wanted the most.
“I think you could recreate that on your own, no problem.” He hands my phone back to me.
“But I don’t want to recreate it.” I stare at my screen, at the lipstick-covered canvas that I adore. “I want this one.”
“How many Chanel lipsticks do you own?”
“None. I don’t really wear lipstick much.” Just lip balm and mascara. That’s about as far as my cosmetics regimen goes.
“With a mouth like that, you should invest in some lipstick,” Crew says.
An unfamiliar sensation trickles through my blood, making me aware of how he’s currently studying my lips. “What do you mean?”
“No one’s ever told you?”