Sweet Nothing(5)

“Oh, I already—”

“I developed the recipe myself,” he says proudly, thrusting the glass into my hands. “It’s gotten rave reviews, I hear.” He gives me a wink and walks away.

I sip my second cosmo dutifully. This one goes down even easier. As clusters of people I don’t know chat and laugh and drink, I stay parked near the fireplace, pretending to be absorbed in the details of the room. A gleaming acoustic guitar leans against the wall. Over the mantle is a painting that looks suspiciously like a Klimt I studied in my Intro to Art History course at Columbia. I take a step closer.

“Beautiful.” Warm breath grazes the back of my neck.

“What?” I whirl around, goose bumps pricking at my skin. Standing just a few inches away is a guy in flax-colored linen pants and a crisp white button-down with the sleeves rolled up. Warmth surges through my body. I take a giant step back to get a better look, whacking my head against the mantle in the process. Half of my cosmo sloshes onto the glossy hardwood floor. Smooth, Elliot.

“Woah. You okay?” He reaches out and takes my elbow, drawing me away from the fireplace. When I tense, he pulls his hand away, running it unnecessarily through a wavy mop of jet-black hair. His skin is olive, but his eyes are a piercing light blue.

“Ow. Yeah. Fine,” I mutter, rubbing the throbbing spot at the back of my skull.

“You gotta watch the mantles around here. They’re vicious.”

“I’m fine.” I try to laugh it off. Yeah, fine. If you don’t count the dented pride and skull.

“Good. So I was just saying, it’s beautiful, right? The painting. I’m pretty sure it’s an original Klimt.”

“Okay.” He’s like the hot guy equivalent of a train wreck: I can’t look away. Not that I’m going to do anything about it. I’ve always been shy around guys. I haven’t been on a date in over a year. And besides, he’s too sexy to be a decent human being. The guy looks like he belongs in one of those black and white cologne commercials, where he’s riding a horse in a field or tackling a half-naked woman on the beach. Whispering words like forever and dry-humping the camera with his stare. Guys like him are never nice guys. They don’t have to be.

“Gustav Klimt? He was an Austrian—”

“Symbolist painter,” I finish. “Painted the female form. His works are noted for their… erotic nature. I know.” Shut up, Elliot. This guy doesn’t actually want to talk about Klimt.

“An art history buff? I’m impressed.” He cocks his head to one side. “You like his work?”

“His Golden Phase.”

“I like his University of Vienna paintings, myself.”

“The stuff that was called pornographic?” I snort.

“The art that made people think; that pushed them out of their comfort zone. Good art does that, you know.”

“Just because it’s radical doesn’t make it good.”

“True. And nothing earth-shattering happens when you play it safe.”

Nothing devastating, either.

He extends a hand. There’s a long slash of bright green paint on his index finger. “I’m Luke.”

“Elle.” I grip his hand, and hope he doesn’t notice that mine is sweaty.

“Elle. Pretty.” He says my name slowly, as if he’s rolling it around on his tongue. Savoring it. “Well, Elle the Art Historian, it was really nice to meet you. Seems like my break’s over. If you could just—” Luke glances down at our hands, which are still intertwined. Energy pulses between our palms.

“Oh. God. Sorry.” I jerk my hand away and wipe it on my dress. It leaves a sweat stain.

“Don’t be.” He smiles again, then turns to pick up his guitar.

I watch as he leans against the wall near the mantle and starts to play. He’s not a guest here; he’s the musician. The entertainment. The eye candy, carefully selected to fit in with the rest of the décor.

From my place just a few feet away, I watch him play. I have nothing better to do, and this way if anyone tries to strike up a conversation, I can pretend to be absorbed in the music.

He starts with an easy, bluesy tune. He’s actually… talented. When he begins to sing, I recognize the song immediately. It’s a Ray LaMontagne number. I love Ray LaMontagne, and Luke covers the song well. His voice is low and raspy like Ray’s, but it’s his own, and he’s not trying too hard.

As he plays, his chin drops to his broad chest. Dark waves fall over his eyes, and I have the ridiculous urge to brush them away. I squeeze the stem of my martini glass instead. No more signature cosmos for me.