Page 6 of Pink Ink

Actually a lens wouldn’t be able to capture his refined beauty. If Aphrodite saw him walking down the street, she would smite him out of jealousy. Maybe I shouldn’t have engaged at all.

My breath stutters as I rack my brain, trying to remember what he said. I clear my throat, then respond, “An astute observation made by someone with an eye for detail.”

It’s a physical feat not to stare at how the tendons in his forearms ripple as he places his hands in his pockets. I’m not falling for the nonchalant demeanor he’s dishing out. If I weren’t studying every angle of him, I would have missed the slight flattening of his thick brows.

“And what made you draw this conclusion?”

I could listen to that British accent all damn day. Deep and elegant, it even sounds like he’s smoldering.

He straightens, silently challenging me, with every expectation that I would back down, and byGoddoes that irk me. He looks like someone who’s used to getting his way.

Unfortunately for him, I’m sleep-deprived, stressed, overcaffeinated, and I have many things to say. He can stare me down with those pretty green eyes of his all he wants, nothing will change the fact that I would kill for a distraction right now.

I don’t want to think about the corrupted footage waiting for me once I get home. Or the essay I haven’t started. Not the ridiculous test I have for an elective class I only chose because of how it worked in my schedule.

Pursing my lips, I twist back to scrutinize the painting. If this man wants to argue over something I’m right about, then I’m game.

“There’s profound meaning behind the piece—that much is apparent. There’s harmony, the detailing is phenomenal, the colors are complimentary, and the composition is superb.” I look over my shoulder at him. “But it lacks intimacy.”

Lately, all of Shaw’s works do.

He scoffs like I might really be insane. “It’s hardly meant to be a piece about love.”

I roll my eyes. Typical man brain. This is probably the first time he’s stepped into an art gallery.

Honestly, I’m not a hundred percent sure that Shaw’s the artist. I haven’t looked at the plaque. It simply looks like something he’s made.

Mom and I would never read the inscription until we were about to leave. She’d always say that you haven’t done a good enough job if you need to read something to understand it. The painter has made it clear that there’smeantto be some level of relationship to the woman. I have no idea what it is.

Herein lies part of the issue.

The other problem being this guy’s attitude.

“To be understood is to know intimacy, as they say. The artist knows the subject; beyond all the symbols, and the pretty background, the people do not. It’s a one-sided relationship between a painter and an object.”

Now would be a good time for me to shut up. Our stares are clashing. His irritation is rolling off him in waves, and I can feel him burning holes into the side of my head.

Yet I continue, “Take Maria van Oosterwyck’s paintings for example. They’re just bouquets of flowers, yet you can feel the connection with every stroke of the petal and each angle of the leaves. She worships those flowers, adores them with every fiber of her being, and she wants you to as well. Only a woman could love something inanimate like that. This?”

I narrow my eyes at the name on the plaque. I was, predictably, correct.

“It seems likeShawis more interested in showing off his fine motor skills than making a strong connection. That woman is a subject, not his muse.”

It’s not always obvious if a piece of art was created by a man or woman, but back in the olden days—especially when artists ran in the same circles—it can be painfully apparent. But sometimes, throw in a bit of critical analysis, and it’s as clear as day.

“It’s a violent painting.” I hazard a glance his way. He’s so rigid, he looks carved from stone. “There isn’t meant to beintimacy,” he saysthrough gritted teeth. “?‘When it comes to art, it’s important not to hide the madness.’?”

Maybe he deserves more credit than I gave him if he’s quoting Atticus. “That’s right. But what else? There’s blood and gore, and…?”

“Are you a painter?” he says abruptly.

I frown, taken aback. “No.”

He raises a brow. “Sculptor?”

“No, but—”

“Illustrator? Designer? Photographer?” he lists. “What about an art degree?”