His obnoxious laugh booms, echoing through the room.
Awesome.
People turn to look at us, including a certain gorgeous stranger with eyes itching to dismember the source of the disruption.
And who can blame him when my dolt of a date must be ruining his night?
We’ve ended up in the same exhibit as him a few times, but this is the first good look I’ve had at his face, and...
You guessed it. Even more intimidatingly beautiful than his backside.
His eyes are green-blue glass inquisitors made to deliver whiplash, glowing like stars under his walnut-colored hair.
They glint in the light like knives with a fierceness that could rival a tiger scenting blood.
But his expression is what gets me. It’s hilariously stern, the meanest scowl in the history of scowl-dom.
He’s surly, intense, and thoroughly pissed off.
Well, hello to you, too, Grumpyface.
Oof. Why is that so funny? I cover my mouth, swallowing a red-faced giggle.
A lot of things are funny tonight that shouldn’t be, and I’m not sure why.
But I guess it’s either laugh it up or sink into a crater of shame.
Nameless doesn’t notice the guy who’d like to impale him staring him down and continues on with boyish barking laughter.
“Can you believe it? I almost knocked that damn thing over.” He laughs again, doubling over.
At least he’s a happy drunk.
“Good thing you caught me, babe. Go team!” His voice is so loud it bounces off the walls.
I’m desperate to pull away.
His Grump-faced Highness graces us with another blistering glance, shaking his head like we just committed a violent felony, and turns away. But a handful of other people who wandered in are still staring.
Yeah, crap. It’s past time to get away from this moose.
“I’m not ba—my name is Paige,” I clip, steeling my voice. I figure it’s the politest way to get him to quit calling me babe. “Maybe we should go. It’s getting late.”
“Huh?” He pulls out his phone, his brow dipping in confusion. “It’s barely after eight.”
Right, but stupid drunk guys and fragile glass artwork don’t mix.
Hell, I’m wishing I drank more so I could put up with this. Maybe I’d find my inner bitch faster and drop him on his head.
“Well, let’s find another exhibit. Some thousand-pound sculptures or something,” I mutter.
Anything, really.
I just need to get away from the glass before we’re banned for life.
He nods and grabs my hand again. We walk out of the glass room and take the spiral staircase one floor down.
“This is a cool floor,” I say. “My absolute favorite is the corner with the model buildings made by Beatrice Brandt.”
“You have a favorite floor? You come here that often? Shit.”
Why, oh why, did I agree to this dumb date? Where’s the sensitive professional guy I thought I was texting? Is this some weird Jekyll and Hyde thing for him?
Whatever it is, I’ve overdosed on so much dumb I can’t help asking.
“It’s hard to believe you’re the same guy who texted me for days about Frank Lloyd Wright and Louise Bourgeois.” Might as well be honest. And bitter.
“Frank Burger-who? Not me!” he blurts out.
What the hell? It’s all I talk about.
We wouldn’t be here if he couldn’t talk art.
Art interprets life and helps us explain the world. I don’t waste time with people who don’t get that, or people who can’t express the slightest interest in the marvels of the human mind.
“Umm—what? Yes, you did.”
If I sound bewildered, I am.
He shakes his head, a horrible smile pulling across his lips. “Nahhh, that was my buddy, Reed. Dude had a better date tonight with a hot accountant and I’m down on hookups, so—here we are.”
Oh, no. The imminent spider feeling zips across the back of my neck so fast it’s almost my turn to get tipsy.
“So he...pawned me off on you? Gross!” My voice is too loud and too high-pitched, echoing off the high ceiling.
I can’t help it.
Confirming my worst suspicions also confirms my total stupidity for giving Nameless way too many chances. He’s not even the guy I set up a date with!
“Babe, calm down,” he says.
His clammy hands fall on my shoulders. Only for a second, thank God, or I’d have punched him for sure.
He pulls the heavy wooden door open, waving his hand with a dramatic flourish, and we enter the architecture exhibit. I so don’t want to be here with Dumb Date Guy Who Doesn’t Even Like Art. But my brain locks up, burned out past the point of how to end this gracefully.
The sight in front of me also steals my attention like it always does.
Soaring three-dimensional models of buildings flank every wall covered with photos of local buildings designed by famous architects. Some of the creators are natives. Chicagoland has everything, just enough awe to beat out its drawbacks.
I think I’m smiling my first real smile since we got here.
Then Dumb Date Guy clears his throat like he has a bone caught there and dulls the magic.