Page 22 of Charlie Sunshine (Close Proximity #2)

The gallery is busy, but there’s space to move around, and he shadows me like some sort of expensive-looking stray dog, stopping when I stop and moving when I do.

I wander through the different rooms looking happily at the artwork and smiling inwardly because Misha is far more interested in the architecture of the building than he is in the pictures.

However, he’s as patient as he always is with me, never rushing me and seeming to derive the same happiness in my company as I do with his.

It’s an ease that I’ve never found with another person.

“What do you think?” I finally say.

He looks around the room. “I’m astonished at the fact that there are so many bare breasts on display.”

I put my hands on my hips. “Have you become a prude, Misha? Say it isn’t so.”

“No, just a realist. The women in these pictures seem to wander through life, getting their tits out at the slightest opportunity. Going to the market—thwap. Attending an execution—thwap. Dinnertime—out come the girls.” He gestures to a painting behind us.

“Even in that one showing Diana at the hunt, she’s got her tits out when she really should invest in a good sports bra or she’ll have back problems in later life. ”

I try not to laugh, but a snort escapes. I put a stern look on my face as we pause in front of the huge picture of Samson and Delilah painted by Rubens. “Well, what about this one? What do you see?”

“What do you see?” he says cautiously. “You know so much more about this than me, Charlie.”

I roll my eyes at him before turning my gaze to the picture.

“I see Delilah watching Samson sleep with his head in her lap. She has her hand on him and looks like she maybe feels regret for cutting his hair, but she can’t express it because of the other man standing over them.

It’s beautiful. Look at the colours of her dress and the glow of his skin. ”

“Oh,” he says faintly, tilting his head to one side and studying the picture in a puzzled fashion. “Oh, right.”

“What do you see, Misha? I can’t wait for this,” I mutter.

He shrugs. “It looks like a threesome that’s gone drastically wrong.”

I can’t stop the laugh this time, and it comes out much too loudly. Several people look disapprovingly at me. I grab his arm and tow him out of the room.

“Okay, let’s try another one.” I position him in front of the painting of the execution of Lady Jane Grey. “What do you see when you look at this?” I demand.

“Really, Charlie? This is like a date with Andrew Graham-Dixon.” He looks at my mop of hair tied up in a lopsided bun. “Only he has better hair.”

I gasp and pinch him. “You wound me, Misha.” I wink at him. “But not enough to divert my attention from the art. Nice try, but what do you see?”

He sighs and gazes at the huge painting showing the poor Nine Days’ Queen about to lay her head on the block, while her ladies-in-waiting sob, and the axeman stares.

“Well, I hope it wasn’t really like this,” he finally says.

“Why?” I ask, slightly excited. Maybe he’s been struck by the terrible pathos of Lady Jane’s situation.

“Just look at it.” He gestures at the painting.

“Her ladies-in-waiting are prostrate and sobbing on the ground. If that had been me, I’d have been quite pissed off.

I’d have said, ‘Ladies, this is really more of a me day than a you day.’ If you can’t have everyone’s attention when you’re being executed, then when can you? ”

I stare at him, and he flushes. “Well, you did ask,” he says defensively.

“I really did,” I say faintly. “Okay, what else?”

He sighs long-sufferingly. “Well, look at the executioner. Weren’t they supposed to dress in black and wear a bloody mask? That bloke looks like he was about to go clubbing and got called into work at the last minute because someone was off sick.”

I look at the pouting axeman in his red tights and doublet and start to laugh. “Oh my God, you’re right.”

“I usually am,” he says in his typically modest fashion. “You should hang around me more, Charlie, and you might get some culture by osmosis.”

“I’m not sure I’d call it that. You’re like some sort of anti-art critic.” I take his hand and tug him toward the next painting. “Come on. I want to hear your views on some more priceless works of art.”

We spend the next hour or so wandering the rooms while he enlivens the day with more acidic commentary.

I watch him studying a picture, his full lips pursed.

I don’t think I’ve ever laughed so much on a date— The record immediately screeches to a stop.

Back the fuck up, Charlie Burroughs, I scold myself. This isn’t a fucking date.

He glances at me and smiles, and I’m suddenly blinded. Like I’m staring directly at the sun. He’s so beautiful , I think wistfully.

“Charlie, you okay?” There’s an anxious tone to his voice like he thinks I’m going to have a turn.

I give his hand a squeeze. “I’m fine,” I say hoarsely. Well, as fine as you can be after realising your best friend is the most beautiful man you’ve ever seen. “Just tired all of a sudden.”

“Hmm,” he say doubtfully. “I think we’ll go and get something to eat. It’s way past lunchtime. We’ve done a lot of walking today, and you’re only just fit again.”

He’s possibly the only person in the world who’d get away with saying solicitous shit like that to me, and the look in his eyes says he knows it.

But tiredness is pulling at my body the way it does when I’ve done too much, and I’m sad, because I don’t want to leave this place. I’m having too good a time.

His eyes soften as he reads my expression. “I tell you what,” he suggests. “I want you to show me your absolute favourite painting in this gallery. The one you’d take if you had the fool-proof chance to steal something.”

I straighten my shoulders and glance around, taking stock of where we are in the Gallery. Then I lead him through the different rooms until we end up in one with red wallpaper. We stop in front of a small ornately framed picture.

“This is it?” he asks curiously. His arm is draped across my shoulders and he tips his head against mine as he looks at the painting. “Why?” he asks. I shiver slightly at the feel of his breath on my face.

“Why, what?” I ask hoarsely.

He looks at me, concerned. “You okay, Charlie?” he asks. “Are you cold?”

I nod quickly. “I’m fine. You’re right. I am a bit tired, I suppose.”

He squeezes my shoulder and looks at the picture. “Okay, tell me quickly why you’d steal this picture.”

A woman standing nearby gasps, and I shake my head in apology at her. “He doesn’t mean it.”

I push my focus towards the picture and away from my wildly inappropriate desire to kiss my best friend. “Erm.” I stop and clear my throat. “It’s a picture of Gainsborough’s daughters. He painted it himself and never finished it.”

“So why do you like it?”

“Because they’re so real ,” I say, enchanted by the lush golden colours of the painting. “It’s painted with such love and affection that you can feel it. They’re just so lovely, and they look full of life and slightly naughty. A bit like your sisters.”

He groans. “Poor Gainsborough, if he had two like Teddy and Anya. Bet he took loads of jobs away from home.” He narrows his eyes at the painting. “They look like they could step out of the picture and run around.”

“I know ,” I say, excited that someone finally gets it.

I’ve brought dates here before, and the men have, by and large, towed me around at top speed, giving me their own opinions and ignoring mine.

“They look like they’re about to run off, and I can imagine him getting exasperated with them because they wouldn’t sit still.

” I sneak a look at his face. “I also really like the fact that it looks like they’ve walked onto the pages of ‘Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland,’” I say almost shyly.

“What?” His brow furrows as he leans closer to the picture. “Is that the shape of a… cat in her arms?”

I nod and laugh. “He never finished the portrait, probably because they ran off to play. That’s their cat, but you can only see his outline, so he looks like the Cheshire Cat about to disappear.”

He grins, delighted with the discovery. “This is my favourite too,” he declares. “It’s got a bit of magic about it.”

“The most mundane things often do,” I observe and, without thinking, I raise my fingers and brush back the lock of jet-black hair that’s fallen over his eyes.

He looks at me in query, and suddenly his full lips are a few centimetres away from mine, his eyes huge and the pupils dilated. We both freeze, and the gallery falls away. All I can hear is our breathing, fast and far too loud.

I drop my hand, and, as he steps back, I see the quick rise and fall of his chest.

What the fuck was that?

“Okay.” He clears his throat. “Okay, time for the cakes and pints you promised me.”

He’s talking way too fast, but I cut him some slack because it takes me several moments to speak at all. “Yes,” I manage, my voice hoarse. “Definitely time to get out of here.”