Page 49

CURATED

MILO

She called my work a travesty.

I’ve heard worse. Hell, I’ve read worse in published reviews. But not from someone who looked at my work with what I thought was such admiration. And then the way she looked up at me. There was a spark that crackled back and forth between us.

I’d noticed her before she said a word. There’d been a moment, before anything was said, when I thought she understood what I’d built. That she caught the layered vision of it all.

But that spark turned into acid when she spoke.

Now, she’s halfway across the gallery, standing beneath a sculptural light installation and looking like she owns the place.

She’s in a deep emerald green dress, the fabric off one shoulder and clinging to all the right places.

Her long blonde hair falls in waves down her back.

Even the way she holds her glass of champagne looks proper.

She has the aura of someone important. She never introduced herself.

Just dropped her opinion like a bomb and then walked away without an apology.

Wait a minute.

She just took a step, and instead of heels to match her fancy gown, she’s wearing black Dr. Martens.

That makes me smile.

Who is this woman?

I lean against a marble pillar, bourbon in hand, trying not to let my eyes drift back to her.

Futile.

I look.

God, help me. She’s gorgeous. And infuriating. She’s laughing now, her head tilted back just enough to let the man at her side believe he said something clever. He didn’t. I know because I’ve met him before. Seth Patterson. He’s a lightweight in design. Paper-thin ideas. No substance.

He leans closer to her and she steps back half an inch, graceful, practiced. She’s good at this.

It’s only after she takes another step back that I see her hand shaking just a bit. Maybe she’s not as calm and collected as she seems.

I want to step in and save her from the lackluster and uncomfortable conversation I know she’s having with Seth, but she called my work a travesty.

The gala is louder this year. Or maybe I’m just noticing more. The clinking glasses and carefully curated laughter—it’s sitting wrong on my skin, like a cat who’s petted in the wrong direction.

My model sits in the center of it all. This was actually a passion project.

I’ve put all my efforts into designing a beautiful library in Duluth for what feels like forever and needed something else to focus on during the weekends or the nights I couldn’t sleep.

What was just passing the time became something I now love and believe in.

Elevated on a white platform beneath spotlights, the installation looks pristine. Every detail precisely constructed.

But her voice echoes over it all. Travesty. You are what’s wrong in America.

Hell, I’m sure there are more scandalous things I’ve done than this park model of exquisite artwork and skill. I could dip her over the model and show her a thing or two that would truly be outrageous.

In fact, it’d almost be a travesty not to dip her back on the installation and show her just how wrong I can be.

So wrong that it’d feel so right. The way she stared up at me, her big brown eyes with the gold specks gazing up at me with desire, her tongue sneaking out to wet those cushiony red lips, made me certain she wished I would.

I almost respect her honesty. Because she didn’t critique the materials or the execution. She critiqued the lack of soul, specifically my very own dark and twisted one.

And I have to admit that what bothers me most is that she struck a nerve.

I’ve loved Spoonbridge and Cherry for as long as I can remember.

She’s also right that it’s a part of the Minneapolis landscape that will be missed, but isn’t it worth it if more people around the country are allowed to enjoy it for themselves?

I circle the gallery, greeting board members and donors and answering questions from junior curators and well-dressed influencers. My practiced smile is in place—it’s second nature by now.

But my eyes keep tracking back to her.

***

We run into each other again near the back wall, where one of the smaller installations is failing to impress anyone. She turns as I approach, almost as if she felt me coming.

“Milo Lombardi,” she says, sipping her champagne. “Still brooding?”

I arch a brow. “Still spewing venom?”

Her eyes flash. “I thought you’d be off collecting compliments from the press.”

“Thought I’d take a break. Let someone else enjoy the sound of their own voice.”

She lifts her glass in salute. “How generous of you.”

There’s a weighted moment of silence that hangs.

She tilts her head, looking past me to my model.

“They love it,” she says bitterly. “You’re going to get everything you want, aren’t you?”

I follow her gaze and then stare at the long curve of her neck as she spits daggers at my work. “Not everything.”

She turns back and meets my eyes, her cheeks flushing. “Meaning?”

“No one gets everything they want, do they?”

Her eyes narrow. “I’m sure you’re not lacking.”

“You don’t seem to be either.”

“True. I can’t complain.”

“You make it a habit of wearing Doc Martens with your evening gowns?” I smirk.

A strange expression crosses her face, but she recovers quickly. “I do now.”

I want to ask what she means by that, but instead, I say, “Well, it says something that you’ve stayed all evening…for me.”

Her eyes flash. “I didn’t stay for you.”

“Didn’t you?” I point at the banner that has my name on it and she rolls her eyes.

“You’re impossible,” she says.

“You’re worse. You make a lot of assumptions.”

“And you think you don’t? Trust me, I didn’t even notice your name. But I have worked with a lot of men like you.” Her eyes flicker over my face with accusation.

“Men like me?”

She turns now, fully facing me. “Talented. Celebrated. Used to being the one who gets the last word.”

“You think I don’t listen?”

“I think you don’t like being wrong.”

She’s not wrong there.

I take a step closer. “You hovered over the installation like you were falling in love, right until you gutted it in one sentence.”

She lifts her shoulder. “I never said it wasn’t beautiful. I’m just not willing to sacrifice history for it.”

“You really think you’re the only one in this room who understands intention? Don’t you want to be part of progress?”

“When it matters, yes.”

The silence between us sharpens.

I can’t decide whether I want to kiss her or walk away forever. Both, I think.

Before I can say anything else, I hear my name, and from the way everyone’s turned to stare at me, I think maybe it’s not the first time I’ve been called. I’m too busy watching this obnoxious woman, watching me.

Luna clears her throat at the mic and smiles at me.

“Friends, thank you for joining us tonight to celebrate the intersection of community, art, and innovation,” she says.

I tune in and out, too keyed up while standing next to this woman.

“…transforming the way we think about public spaces…”

“…a visionary who’s brought something truly unique to our city…”

I hear the woman groan next to me and turn to glare at her. She looks at me with innocent eyes. Little minx.

“What is your problem?” I say under my breath.

Just as Luna says, “And now, please welcome Milo Lombardi.”

Applause circles through the room.

I step forward, moving to the low stage near the model and blinking beneath the lights.

I give the speech I prepared. It’s smooth, a nice mix of humble and polished.

I wonder what the beautiful woman is thinking the entire time.

I need to get her name before the night is over.

When I finish, the applause is louder. A few of the board members shake my hand, pausing me mid-step.

When I look back at the corner where we were standing together, she’s gone.

***

I find her on the rooftop terrace. I tell myself that I came up here to get space, not that I was hoping to catch a glimpse of her again.

She’s there, overlooking the sculpture garden, Spoonbridge and Cherry a touch of whimsy for the towering Basilica of Saint Mary in the background.

She’s not overshadowed by the splendor behind her, not in the slightest. I’ve never seen a woman more beautiful than her, and for a second, I allow myself to enjoy the view.

She turns and meets my eyes.

“You again,” she says, but her words have no bite this time. “I didn’t come up here for company.”

“I didn’t come up here for you,” I lie.

She looks away. “But you’re staying.”

“Maybe I like the view.”

She looks at me over her shoulder, the corner of her mouth twitching when she sees my eyes on her. “Are you always so insufferable?”

“Maybe,” I say, stepping closer. “But you haven’t walked away.”

Her breath catches and then her jaw tightens like she’s angry with herself for not moving.

And then we’re not talking anymore. Her mouth is on mine. I’m not sure if I started it or she did.

The kiss is sharp-edged and heady, a rush to all my senses. Her hands fist in the lapels of my jacket, and mine slide to her waist, pulling her against me like I’ve wanted to since the moment she insulted me in the gallery.

She tastes like champagne and defiance, and I’m half drunk on the combination.

She pulls back slightly, breath ragged. “This is such a bad idea.”

“Probably the worst,” I whisper, and kiss her again.

It’s reckless. Irresponsible. A dare to wreck my world. Yet I keep going. I’d do just about anything she asked right now.

She pulls away long enough to mutter, “I don’t know what to do with you.”

I brush a strand of hair from her cheek. “You don’t have to do anything. Just stop hating me for five seconds.”

She stares at me for a beat and then her lips are on mine again, soft and urgent. Nothing else exists. Her body melts against mine, her fingers fisting my hair.

When she pulls away again, I want to chase her mouth, but instead, I grin. “You kiss like you have something to prove.”

She freezes. “Excuse me?”

I frown. “I meant—intense. Fiery.”

“Something to prove ?” she echoes, voice rising. “That’s what you got out of that?”

I close my eyes, sighing. “That came out wrong.”

She laughs, but it’s hollow. “Let’s just go back to admitting this was a bad idea.”

“It didn’t feel like a bad idea.”

She moves past me.

“Come on. Don’t walk away. Stay, please?—”

But she doesn’t stop.

I stay rooted to the rooftop, watching long after she’s out of sight.

Will they hate each otheror will sparks fly between Milo and Goldie? Or both...