“Several times this year already,” he said, moving to stand beside me.“It's a growing market for our website.”
“Oh.” If I dropped my hand to my side, I would brush his with mine, so I held my hands carefully in my lap instead.
He turned his head to look at me, his gray eyes sharp and keen. “What about you? When was the last time you were in France?”
I shrugged, wrapping my arms around my middle like there was an empty pit in my soul. “I've never been.”
“No?” His eyes widened slightly. “But your specialty is French artwork. I thought I saw something in your resume about it.”
“I was accepted into an internship at the Louvre, but my mom got sick, so I didn't go.” I shifted my weight, and hugged myself a little tighter.
“I'm sorry,” he said quietly, sounding very much like Charlotte. “Was she in appraisals as well?”
“No, my mom was an artist. Her impressionist work was as good as the masters. She taught me how to see every brush stroke as important and to look for all the details in a piece.” I smiled fondly, diving into a memory. “We used to sit and talk in the mornings, and then during her chemo treatments, about going to Paris together. We had museums and tours all figured out. All the art we could take in.”
“And you didn't go?” Bastian's voice was low and soft.
“She died before we ever got a chance.” I shook my head, freeing myself from the memory. “I got a different internship and then things have just been so busy that I haven't found the time.”
I thought of adding, “or the funds,” but I doubted a billionaire would understand that part of my problem.
Bastian studied me for a moment, his gray eyes going over me like a painting, taking in every nuance of my face. I looked up at him, enjoying having his company all to myself for a moment. It reminded me of our sunrise out on the beach.
My heart skipped a beat as I realized how close he was. If I just leaned forward by only an inch or two, I would be nearly kissing him. His warmth radiated off him and I could smell the faintest hint of his aftershave and it was difficult not to inhale hard for more.
He glanced back at the painting for a moment before smiling back at me. “You'd like Paris. It's full of beautiful things. You'd fit in there.”
I blushed at the accidental compliment, biting my bottom lip in a bashful smile as I fiddled with a strand of hair. The thought of kissing him slipped into my mind again, and I nearly did before remembering who he was. I couldn't just kiss a billionaire because he said something nice to me.
“I looked up her work,” he said, turning to look at the painting again.
“Who?” I stammered, my brain spinning and sliding on the smell of his cologne. I took a step back in surprise and promptly lost my balance.
He caught me, wrapping me up in one of his arms before I even realized I was in danger of falling. His arm was steel muscle and I couldn't stop thinking about what it would be like to have it wrapped around me in an entirely different room. I pressed my thighs together, struggling to keep the image of his arms on either side of me, his chest bare and strong above me, his hair falling into his eyes with exertion...
“You okay?” He hadn't let go of me yet, but I also hadn't fully regained the use of my legs yet either.
“Yeah,” I grinned, knowing I was blushing like a fool. “Just stepped back funny. I'm okay.”
He waited just an extra moment before releasing me. I didn't want him to let me go. I was considering falling again, just to have him touch me, but I didn't want to appear weak or too obvious.
“Berthe Morisot,” he replied, looking back at the painting. “One of the 'les trois grandes dames' of impressionism. I like this one, but there's something about her landscapes that appeal to me more.”
“Really?” I asked, surprised that he had even remembered her name. “Do you have a favorite?”
“'A Corner of the Rose Garden,'” he answered. A full smile filled my face. It was one of my favorites as well. It had always reminded me of mornings in my mother's garden when I was little.
“I can't believe you actually looked her up,” I said, tucking the strand of hair behind my ear.
“What?” He grinned. “A billionaire can't use Google?”
I laughed. “I don't know, is there a gold plated version?”
“Platinum.” He put on a straight face, but his eyes twinkled as he teased me. “Gold is for mere millionaires.”
I giggled and he grinned. His smile had the same warmth as it did at sunrise and the beauty of it made my heart flutter. When he smiled, the world lit up.
I wanted to ask him so many questions. I wanted to know why he was in foster care with Charlotte, and how he had found the way to turn a dating company into a billion dollar empire from that background. Where did he go to school? Did he have any hobbies other than paddle-boarding? What was his favorite color? I wanted to know everything about him.