“Philip Montfort,” he said, holding out a hand for me to shake, which I took, but he quickly twisted my hand so he could kiss the knuckles. Just there and gone again, releasing my hand as James loomed larger. “And you’re Kit Greyson.”
I turned to James, who looked somewhat put out by this, but Philip charged on.
“But where is your puckish other half?” He looked with exaggerated care over our shoulders. “Are that omega’s eyes really that green? I assumed it was a little creative license on our boy’s behalf here, but he assured me no.”
“They are that green,” I said with a smile, turning back to James. “I didn’t realise you had spent that much time looking at them.”
“They haunt my fucking dreams,” James rumbled, looking out across the crowds as if that made it easier to say. “Both of yours do. Now, Philip, show me where the bar is, start giving an impromptu artist talk for Kit, or piss off, because as much as you might want to expose the depths and length of my pining, I don’t want her scurrying away from me on the second date.”
“Second date?” Philip’s brow jerked up. “When was the first?”
“This morning,” I replied to the sound of James’ strangled groan.
“Oh, of course it was.” He reached out, wrapping an arm around my shoulders and drew me into the gallery. “So what would you like to hear about, Kit? Pining or art?”
“The art, without a doubt,” I answered, then looked over my shoulder to where James stood, looking like he’d murder Philip in his sleep. “But a girl does like to be pined for.”
“Then you’ll love James, because that boy? I admit, I’ve never seen an alpha devolve into an indecisive mess before, so thank you for that, firstly.”
He stopped us in front of a massive multicoloured abstract piece, the energy with which the paint had been applied obvious in the strokes, something that almost infected you.
“Colour study.” He flipped his hand in the painting’s direction. “Pushing beyond the expectations of representational art. Gestural. What even is art anyway?”
“Um…this?” I replied.
“Yes!” He seemed ridiculously pleased by this. “The rest are all the same, variations on a theme. Makes them easier to sell, as they fit with people’s decor. I have a few friends in the interior design biz who shoot me the top ten colours being used in upper-class rooms across the city, and I make sure to include them.”
“No! Really?” I squeaked. “I thought it was all supposed to be divine inspiration and theoretical representation.”
“It is,” he replied with a smug grin. “I just got sick of having a studio packed with unsold canvases, so I got wise. I come into paint full of energy I need to get out on the canvas.” He pointed to a particularly emphatic work. “But I do it using colours I know will sell.” He indicated the little red dots beneath so many works. “It’s a win-win. Now, as to your boy…”
We both looked across the room, over the heads of so many well-heeled gallery goers, to see him standing before the bar, staring at us.
“I’m glad he finally found his balls and approached you. Never met anyone in love with pain as much as him.”
Philip’s offhand comment didn’t quite have the right effect on me, making me go very still under his grip. The fact he was a beta was a blessing, as he wouldn’t catch the rapid shift in my scent, so he charged on.
“I told him to call on you or whatever blue bloods like him do. Do you still post banns or announce your intentions via a town crier?”
“I don’t know if we’ve ever done that,” I replied. “What even is a bann?”
Philip shrugged, not letting that—or anything else, I was sure—stop him.
“He’s always been that standoffish alpha type that had half our year at art school creaming their pants over him. I admit, I might have nursed a little crush back in the day.” My eyes jerked up to meet his, and he winked in response. “But seeing the mighty James Chadwick brought low by two omegas.” His smile spread slowly. “Well, that was worth the price of admission. He’s been obsessed over that portrait of the two of you since it was drawn. I know it must be a little nerve-racking as an omega, considering the suit of an alpha but…”
James stalked through the crowd holding two flutes of champagne, people parting automatically to let him pass.
“He’s got that whole lord of the manor thing, I know, but don’t let that fool you. He could’ve been a complete dick at art school, using his position and his privilege to get him ahead and in the underwear of most of the student body and half of the staff. He didn’t. Sometimes, I feel like there’s something very old-fashioned about him, all the noblesse oblige weighing him down, forcing him to be terribly gallant… And now he’s coming to kick my arse.”
Philip tipped my face his way with a gentle but firm grip.
“He’s the real deal, as far as I can tell. Obviously, it could all be bullshit, but as a pretty boy who rose up from the mean streets of our fair city, I reckon I’m damn good at seeing under people’s masks. If you want him, for god’s sake, grab him with both hands, and if you don’t?” His expression softened to one of such empathy, I almost queried his designation. “Let him know. One of his many groupies will swoop in to put him back together, don’t you worry, but—”
“You better have been talking to Kit about the history of abstract art,” James said, taking up position by my side and handing me the glass, champagne fizzing as it sloshed against the sides.
“He has,” I replied, winking to Philip. “It’s been very informative.”
“Must go,” the artist said, his grin completely unrepentant. “There’s a couple of overly financially burdened ladies over there that I know for a fact are looking for something with hunter green as part of the colour scheme. Enjoy!”