It’d been a whirlwind of a day going to all the touristy sites around Philadelphia. I’d laughed at Adrian’s wonder at visiting The Liberty Bell as if he had been seeing it for the first time. That was when he’d informed me that he’d only lived and worked here for a year, and as his business often took him out of town, he hadn’t had much time to visit all the sites. Even though I’m a native Chicagoan, I’d been to the city numerous times with my parents, so I’d become his unofficial tour guide.
Since I still didn’t know the local places, I did the best I could. We strolled along the Schuylkill Banks Boardwalk and had lunch at the Independence Beer Gardens before spending time at the Penn Museum. The day was nearly over, and I was relieved that we’d avoided two of my most favorite places. But then, after he hailed a cab, he directed the driver to the Philadelphia Museum of Arts. My face must’ve gone white, as he looked over at me and frowned.
“Are you okay?” he asked, a mask of concern on his face.
The truth was that I always broke down whenever I entered the doors of that particular museum, and I didn’t want him to see me like that. Still, I wasn’t ready for the day to be over, so I swallowed hard and nodded, forcing a smile onto my face. He accepted my quiet answer, then leaned over and pressed a kiss to my temple as we rode in silence.
“Are you a fan of the arts, Gabriella?” he asked as we walked up the steps hand in hand. I’d hoped he couldn’t tell how clammy mine had become, but if he noticed, he didn’t say a word.
“Actually, I was an art history major,” I informed him before pulling my membership card out of my wallet.
He lifted an eyebrow. “Really? Art history? Why’d you choose that route?” he asked with piqued interest.
I shrugged, not really wanting to get into it, especially not on a first date. Or was this a second? Either way, I was nowhere near ready to talk about my past.
“Ever since I was a little girl, I’ve always loved art. When I got to college, it just made sense. I had fanciful dreams of combining work and pleasure. I wanted a career I was passionate about. Which is why I’m just a receptionist,” I joked.
His brow furrowed as he pulled me against him. “Don’t sell yourself short, Gabriella. You are so much more than that,” he whispered before leaning down and placing a soft kiss on my lips.
A flutter attacked my belly while there was a tiny pin prick in my heart from an unseen Cupid’s little arrow. Part of me fell for him then and there. It was na?ve to think he could know that about me after twenty-four hours, but I wanted so badly to feel a connection with someone, with him.
As we walked through the halls, I couldn’t believe that the tears were kept at bay. The last time I was here, I’d barely made it through the first gallery before having to dig my tissues out of my purse. I attributed it to Adrian, to his warm hand wrapped around mine protectively, maybe even a bit possessively. Finally, if even for a day, I was no longer alone.
I’d been so lost in my thoughts that I hadn’t even realized we’d wandered right into the hall I’d been avoiding since my move to Philadelphia. My eyes rose and my breath caught as I gazed upon the work of art before me.
Adrian chuckled at my side. “I often feel the same way the first time I see a beautiful work of art. Although I must admit, I’m not much of an Impressionist fan. I prefer more realistic paintings,” he quipped.
“He was my mother’s favorite,” I whispered, unable to tear my eyes away from the wall in front of us. “His reproductions were all over the house I grew up in.”
He sucked in a deep breath beside me, catching my attention. When I looked up at him, he was studying me with avid curiosity.
“Really? Interesting,” he said, glancing from the painting back to me. “This was her favorite? Or was there another?”
I nodded, swallowing hard. It wasn’t until much later that I realized he’d referred to her in past tense. Was it because he was observant and followed my lead? Or had he already known?
“Do you still have them? The paintings, I mean,” he prompted. “I’d love to see them. I’ve always been fascinated at how easily such an exquisite work of art can be reproduced. Can one see the flaws with the naked human eye, or would it have to be studied carefully to know which is real and which is fake?”
“No. Well, maybe. I don’t know where they are,” I admitted before forcing myself to smile at him. “I think I’m all museumed out. What do you say we go in search of the city’s best cheesesteak?”
I knew that it was probably cliché, but I’d have done anything to get myself out of there without breaking down, or discussing my parents with him. It was too soon. I wasn’t ready. I wasn’t sure I’d ever be, and I was appreciative that he didn’t push the subject. He slipped his arm around my waist and said that I was his to command. It wasn’t the last time he asked about the painting, but as I’d told him, I had no idea where it was, and eventually, he dropped it.
When he dropped me off at my studio apartment that evening with merely a light kiss on the lips and a goodnight, I never expected to see him again. I spent the night staring at the ceiling wishing that I would, but knowing my time as Cinderella had ended and I had no glass slipper to send him in search of me. So when he showed up at The Daily Grind the next morning and for the rest of the week, he proved me otherwise. Each morning, we made small talk for an hour or so—he usually asked about me and then we went our separate ways for the day. Me to my receptionist job and him to whatever high-rise where he worked on his investments.