Page 21

Bella

The familiar facade of the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum rises before me, its Venetian-inspired architecture a stark contrast to Boston's modern skyline.

Early morning sunlight catches on the ornate stonework, and something in my chest loosens just at the sight.

This place has always been my sanctuary, my escape when the world gets too loud.

And God knows I need that escape right now.

Last night's phone call with Ares plays on repeat in my mind. The warmth in his voice, the way he remembered such a minor detail from our past. It felt... good. Comfortable. Like crawling into bed after a long day.

And that's exactly why I'm here. Because "good" and "comfortable" are dangerous when it comes to Ares Saint. Those feelings lead to dropped guards and lowered defenses. To sharing memories and laughing about the past. To forgetting why I built these walls in the first place.

I flash my membership card at the entrance, exchanging a quiet smile with Peter, the elderly security guard who's been here as long as I've been coming. The click of my boots against marble echoes through the nearly empty halls as I make my way to the courtyard.

The first breath of flower-scented air feels like coming home.

Morning light streams through the glass ceiling, casting ethereal patterns across the stone floor.

Here, surrounded by climbing vines and classical statuary, I can almost pretend the outside world doesn't exist. No media circus, no Saint family drama, no confusing feelings about phone calls that shouldn't make my heart race—

"Red?"

My heart stops, then lurches painfully against my ribs. That voice. It can't be.

But when I turn, my fingers gripping the marble railing for support, there he is.

Ares Saint, all six-foot-two of him, looking oddly out of place and yet somehow perfect among the classical architecture.

The morning light catches on his sharp jawline, highlighting the tension there.

My body betrays me with an instant physical recognition, skin prickling with awareness despite my mind's protests.

His presence fills the space, making the vast courtyard feel suddenly intimate, almost claustrophobic.

The familiar scent of his cologne drifts over, and my traitorous lungs inhale deeply before I can stop myself.

Each breath carries echoes of the past: hidden corners of the Saint mansion, whispered promises, the weight of his family's disapproval.

"What are you doing here?" The words come out sharper than intended, bouncing off the marble walls.

He runs a hand through his hair. "Came across this place online. Remembered how you used to talk about it." His lips quirk up slightly. "Figured the paparazzi wouldn't think to look for me in an art museum at ten in the morning."

"So you just chose the one place in Boston—"

"That I remembered means something to you?" He steps closer, and my pulse jumps. "Thought I'd see if I can understand why. Try and see it through your eyes."

I should leave. Should turn around and walk right back out those ornate doors. Instead, I hear myself saying, "It's the light that makes this place extra special."

"What?"

"The way it falls through the glass ceiling.

" I gesture upward, unable to stop myself.

"How it changes throughout the day, making everything look different from one hour to the next.

Isabella Stewart Gardner understood that art isn't just about the pieces themselves—it's about how we experience them. "

Something shifts in his expression, softens. "Show me?"

"Ares..."

"Come on, Red." There's a challenge in his voice now, mixed with something that sounds dangerously like hope. "I could use a guide. Unless you're afraid of spending time alone with the big bad Saint heir?"

"I'm not afraid of you."

"Prove it." He gestures toward the spiral staircase. "Show me why this place matters to you."

I should say no. Should walk away. But something in his expression—earnest curiosity mixed with that familiar stubborn determination—makes me pause.

"Fine." I straighten my spine. "But we do this my way. No Saint attitude, no interrupting my explanations, and absolutely no trying to buy anything."

His laugh echoes off the marble walls, rich and genuine in a way I haven't heard since we were teenagers. "Deal."

I lead him up the spiral staircase, acutely aware of his presence behind me. The space feels smaller somehow, charged with an energy I'm trying desperately to ignore.

"This is my favorite gallery," I say, stepping into a room filled with Renaissance paintings. The light spills through tall windows, making the gold frames gleam. "The way she arranged everything—it's not chronological or by artist. It's about feeling, about how pieces speak to each other."

"Like this one?" Ares moves closer to a painting, and I catch myself studying his profile—the sharp line of his jaw, the way his brow furrows in concentration. Some things haven't changed.

"That's—" I step forward to explain, not realizing he's shifted back at the same moment. His solid chest meets my shoulder, and heat blooms where we touch. For a moment, neither of us moves.

"Sorry," he murmurs, but he doesn't step away immediately. I can feel the warmth radiating from him, smell that subtle cologne that's making it hard to think straight.

I clear my throat, putting space between us. "It's Titian. See how he uses light to draw your eye to—" I reach up to point out a detail, and Ares leans in to follow my gesture. His breath whispers against my ear.

"To what?" His voice is low, intimate in the quiet gallery.

"To, um..." God, I've seen this painting a hundred times. Why can't I remember a single detail right now? My brain feels wrapped in cotton, every thought slowed by his proximity. The painting before me—a masterpiece I've studied for years—suddenly might as well be a blank canvas.

"You still do that thing," he whispers.

"What thing?"

"Bite your lip when you're nervous." His gaze drops to my mouth, and my heart thunders against my ribs.

I didn't even realize I was doing it. The same unconscious habit from when we were teenagers, when he'd catch me staring at him across the library table. Some primal part of me remembers him, responds to him, even when my mind screams caution.

"Some things don't change."

"Some things do." But even I don't believe my words, not with the way my body is humming with awareness of him.

Our eyes lock, and for a suspended moment, the gallery, the painting, the entire world beyond the space between us disappears.

There's only the electric current running between us, the unspoken history, the dangerous possibility.

He takes a step back, and I feel the loss of his warmth immediately. "Show me more?"

We move through the galleries, and I relax despite my best intentions. It's easy, too easy, to fall into conversation with him. He asks intelligent questions about the art, remembers details I mention, and somehow makes me laugh with his observations.

I'm explaining the importance of the brush technique in a painting when I notice him watching me instead of the wall.

"What?"

"You light up when you talk about art." His voice is soft. "Your whole face changes. It's..."

"It's what?" I ask.

"Beautiful."

The single word crashes through my carefully constructed defenses. My pulse skips, heat blooming across my skin as his gaze lingers, searching my face for something I'm afraid he might find.

I turn away, heart pounding against my ribs like a trapped bird. "There's a Rembrandt in the next room that—"

"Red." His hand catches mine as I try to move past him. The contact sends electricity shooting up my arm, awakening nerve endings I thought had long since died. "Look at me."

I do, against my better judgment. His expression is open, vulnerable in a way I've never seen before—not even when we were teenagers stealing moments in the garden.

"I miss this," he says quietly. "Miss how easy it was to talk to you. Miss watching you get excited about things you love."

"Ares..." His name comes out like a warning, or maybe a plea.

"I know." His thumb traces circles on my palm, and my brain short-circuits. "I know we can't go back. But being here with you, seeing all this through your eyes... it reminds me of who I used to be. Who we used to be."

The weight of fifteen years hangs between us, heavy with what-ifs and might-have-beens. I pull my hand from his, retreating into safer territory. "The courtyard is beautiful this time of day. The light makes the fountain look like liquid gold."

I turn away, moving through the gallery toward the open air. I feel him follow me, his presence a physical weight against my back as we walk. Neither of us speaks, but the silence says everything our words cannot.

When we arrive back at the courtyard, it is transformed by mid-morning light. Sunbeams dance across the fountain's spray, turning water droplets into floating diamonds. The sweet scent of blooming jasmine mingles with ancient stone and history.

"It's like stepping into another world," Ares murmurs, his shoulder brushing mine as we stand at the railing overlooking the space. "I get why you love it here."

"Sometimes I come and just sit for hours." The words slip out before I can catch them. "When I need to think, or..."

"Or escape?" His voice is gentle, knowing.

"Yeah." I trace my fingers along the cool marble railing, hyperaware of how close he's standing. "It's peaceful. No one expects anything from you here. You can just... be."

He turns toward me. "Is that what you're doing now? Escaping?"

"I—"

"Oh my God. I'm right. That's Ares Saint?" A woman's excited whisper carries through the air. "The one from the news?"