Beneath The Skin(52)

When I pass into another vignette, I find a pair of giggling bushy-haired guys trying to take a selfie together next to a grandfather clock. Its hands, I find upon closer inspection, spin slowly in opposite directions, and the numbers are all out of order, and instead of a 3 there’s a B, and instead of an 11, there’s an R. Gosh, I feel so insecure. All my means of security are so unreliable and broken, even time itself.

And Iris accuses my work of being obvious?

After passing through a room filled with obnoxious, unhidden cameras that rotate quickly to track everyone passing through—with screens posted in an adjacent room broadcasting everything they see—I happen on a vignette that is downright empty compared to the other busier rooms. In its center is a single pedestal about waist high, and resting upon it is an enormous heart-shaped locket.

I smirk upon seeing the locket. Curiosity gets the better of me, so I cover the three paces it takes to bring myself to the side of the pedestal and I grip the little knob on the locket’s face and pull it.

And it doesn’t open.

I frown, thinking I might be trying to open it wrong. I look for a latch or hook, but there is none. I examine the backside, confused, then try opening it again, wanting to know what’s inside. The cursed thing still doesn’t open.

I scowl at it now, purely annoyed.

Deciding to alter my tack, I use both hands to try and get the damn thing to reveal its contents to me—one hand holding down the body, the other pulling on the dumb knob. Even after a solid minute of grunting and tugging, still the damn thing won’t open, its contents safe from my eyes and utterly unknown.

Then … “Oh,” I mutter to myself, realizing the point.

I sigh, letting go of the thing at last. I almost feel stupid, falling for it. Of course the enormous locket would be heart-shaped. All of the things in our lives that we rely on for keeping us secure and protected, they ultimately fail us, letting in the robbers and thieves and prying eyes and uninvited friends into our most private, precious spaces. And yet the heart …

The heart is just a cold, metal locket that won’t open even if you want it to—the most secure thing of all.

Footsteps shuffle slowly into the space from behind. I turn towards the sound.

Brant stands there with his hands in the pockets of his low-hanging crinkled jeans, his biceps bulging beautifully in the effort and hugged by the sleeves of the green t-shirt he wears, and his bright blue eyes lock onto mine with his forehead wrinkled up cutely. His sexy lips purse, sucking in his cheeks as he watches me.

“Hey, pretty,” he finally says.

I cross my arms. I hate that that’s the first thing I do. “Hi,” I offer back coolly.

Why can’t I be sweet and nice to him? He doesn’t deserve me standing here protecting my own steel-cased heart locket. Lighten up, Nell.

“Enjoying Renée’s show?”

I take a short breath, then put on a smile. “It’s very moving.”

He tilts his head. “What’s wrong?”

I flinch. “What do you mean?”

“You’re smiling.”

Seriously? You think something’s wrong because I’m smiling? “I’m fine,” I tell him, unfolding my arms and willing my nerves to chill out. After a moment’s thought, I lower my voice and add, “But if I’m totally honest, I’m … I’m not really a Renée Brigand fan.”

“Really? Maybe you’re just looking at the wrong stuff. Hey, I just saw something pretty cool in the other room. Did you—?”

“Already saw it. Not a fan of hand veins and bloodshot eyes.”

“One of the photos was a bodybuilder’s forearm, actually. But that’s not the one I’m talking about.” He takes a step toward me, his eyes alight. “There’s this other room …”

“Brant …”

“What?” he asks innocently, leaning against the pedestal.

I didn’t realize how close he’d gotten. I can smell his cologne.

I can’t escape it; every breath is now all full of him.

His spice. His shampoo.

His crispness. His minty freshness.

His heat.

His fucking everything.

“I just …” I take a deep breath, preparing myself for what I want to say, and then becoming utterly incapable of saying any of it. Stay away. I can’t do this. We can’t go through this.

All of that in my head suddenly becomes: Don’t go away. I need this. We have to go through every inch and second and stroke of this.

He steps even closer, his chest nearly against me as his intense blue eyes bore down into mine.

“You just … what?” he asks softly, encouraging me.