Page 22

My heart jumps into my throat. Across the courtyard, I spot two women—one with her phone already raised, the other gesturing excitedly in our direction. They're trying to make their way toward us, but a tour group has stopped to admire the fountain, creating an unintentional barrier between us.

I glance at Ares and catch the flash of dread that crosses his face—the slight tightening around his eyes, the almost imperceptible tensing of his shoulders. It's a look I recognize from years ago, when he'd hear his father's car in the driveway, cutting our time together short.

The women are negotiating their way around the tour group now, determination in their movements. We have seconds, maybe less.

Without thinking, I spring into action.

"Quick." I grab his hand, my fingers tingling at the contact.

His palm is warm against mine, callused in places I don't remember—small changes that somehow make this feel more real.

I pull him through a narrow doorway into one of the smaller galleries, my heart thundering so loudly I'm sure he must hear it.

The space is tight, forcing us close together.

My back presses against a tapestry-covered wall, the rough texture catching on my sweater, while Ares's broad frame shields me from view.

"Just like old times," he whispers, amusement dancing in his eyes even as his breath hitches when I shift against him. "You always did know the best hiding spots."

"Shh." But I'm fighting a smile, memories flooding back with startling clarity—ducking behind rose bushes in his mother's garden, hiding in the library's alcoves, stolen moments in shadowed corners.

My skin burns where his body presses against mine, every point of contact sending sparks of awareness through my system.

Voices drift closer. "The magazine said he's staying in Boston..."

"After that awful interview his ex gave? Poor thing looked devastated... "

Ares tenses against me, his jaw clenching.

The muscle there ticks—a tell I remember from our youth, one that always betrayed his carefully controlled facade.

Without thinking, I squeeze his hand, still clasped in mine.

The simple gesture feels both foreign and achingly familiar.

His eyes find mine in the dim light, surprise flickering across his features before something deeper, more dangerous takes its place.

The footsteps pass our hiding spot, voices fading into whispers, then silence.

We remain frozen in our sanctuary of shadows and light, the world beyond this small space ceasing to exist. I find him studying my face with an intensity that makes my skin flush, and I realize I'm doing the same—cataloging the changes time has wrought, searching for the boy I knew in the man before me.

A shaft of sunlight cuts through the doorway, catching his face at an angle that transforms him.

It highlights those impossible cheekbones, now sharper than I remember, and illuminates the scruff along his jaw that wasn't there in our youth.

The stubble suits him—adds a ruggedness to his polished features that makes something low in my stomach tighten.

My fingers tingle with the urge to feel its texture, to trace the new angles of his face, to map the changes fifteen years have carved into his features.

"They're gone," I whisper, but make no move to step away.

The tapestry behind me depicts some ancient love story—lovers separated by circumstance, reaching across time.

I can feel the threads pressing patterns into my back, weaving their story into mine, marking me just as his presence is marking this moment into memory.

"Are they?" His voice has dropped to a rumble that I feel more than hear.

His free hand comes up, hesitating for a heartbeat before brushing a strand of hair from my face.

The touch sends electricity shooting down my spine, and I have to bite back a gasp.

His fingers linger near my cheek, trembling slightly.

"You know none of what they're saying in the media is true, right? About Jessica, about us..."

"I know." And I do, with a certainty that surprises me.

The Ares I've spent the morning with isn't the calculating playboy the media portrays.

He's... familiar. Real. His thumb starts to trace my cheekbone, feather-light, and it reminds me of another time, another hidden corner, when we thought love could conquer anything—even his family's expectations.

"Being here with you... it's the first time I've felt like myself in years."

"Ares..." His name comes out breathless.

"Tell me to stop." His eyes search mine, dark with something that makes my pulse race. "Tell me this is crazy, that we're just reopening old wounds."

I should. God, I should. Instead, I lean into his touch, drawn by the gravity that's always existed between us.

The world narrows to this: his warmth, his scent, the way his eyes drop to my lips. The gallery's cool air prickles against my heated skin, creating a dizzying contrast to the heat radiating from his body.

"Red..." My body recognizes the tone before my mind does, responding with a shiver that has nothing to do with the cool air.

A loud crash from somewhere in the museum shatters the moment. We jump apart like guilty teenagers, reality crashing back in. The sudden loss of his warmth sends a shiver through me, my body already betraying its desire to lean back into him.

“We should..." I gesture vaguely toward the door, my face burning. My legs feel unsteady, like they've forgotten how to work properly without his support.

"Yeah." He runs a hand through his hair, leaving it charmingly disheveled. The sight sends a jolt of recognition through me—it's the same nervous gesture from our youth, when he'd try to compose himself after our stolen moments. "Probably safer to keep moving."

But as we step back into the sunlit gallery, his hand finds the small of my back—protective, possessive, sending warmth spreading through my body like wildfire. The simple touch feels both dangerous and inevitable, like everything about us.

We arrive into the Dutch Room, where light streams through leaded glass windows, casting prismatic patterns across the floor. The empty frames from the infamous heist hang like ghosts on the walls, and something about their hollow presence resonates deep in my chest.

"Those frames," Ares says, stepping closer to one. His voice carries the same quiet reverence I feel in this space. "Why do they keep them up even though the paintings are gone?"

"Isabella Stewart Gardner's will specified nothing in the museum could be changed." I move beside him, our shoulders almost touching. "And, I think there's something powerful about acknowledging what's missing. Not trying to hide the loss or pretend it never existed."

His eyes find mine, understanding flickering in their depths. The intensity of his gaze makes my breath catch. "Like a reminder that something valuable once hung there?"

"Exactly." My voice softens, betraying more emotion than I intend. My fingers twist together, fighting the urge to reach for him. "And maybe... maybe there's hope they'll come home one day."

The weight of unspoken parallels hangs between us, heavy as the gilt frames on the walls. Fifteen years of empty frames in our own lives, spaces where something precious once hung.

"I used to imagine us," he says suddenly, his voice low and rough with emotion. His hands clench at his sides. "What our lives might have been if certain things didn't happen."

My pulse thunders in my ears, drowning out the distant sounds of other visitors.

"I know we can't go back." He turns to face me fully, and the raw honesty in his expression makes my chest ache. "But like I said before. Being here with you today, seeing everything through your eyes... it reminds me of who I was before I let them reshape me into their perfect heir."

"And who was that?" The question slips out before I can stop it, my voice barely above a whisper.

"Someone who knew what really mattered." His fingers brush mine, just the slightest touch, but it sends electricity arcing through my entire body.

The contact echoes with memories—his hands guiding mine on piano keys, threading through my hair behind the garden maze, wiping away tears on days the memory of my parents made me emotional.

We drift through the remaining galleries, our conversation flowing easier now, weighted with honesty instead of accusations.

The daylight shifts as we move, painting shadows and highlighting different angles of his face—each new view making my artist's fingers itch to capture the changes time has carved into his features.

As we complete our circuit of the museum, I glance at my watch and reality crashes back in. The bubble of our shared morning—this strange, suspended time where the past and present seem to blur—can't last forever.

"I should go." The words come out shaky, reluctant despite my better judgment. "I have a meeting with the gallery later."

"Red..." He catches my hand as I turn to leave, the contact sending another jolt through my system. "Thank you. For showing me your world today."

Something in his voice makes me look back. The vulnerability in his expression steals my breath. I should say something meaningful, something that matches the weight of this moment. Instead, I smirk, falling back on the playful banter that always felt safe between us.

"Well, you were surprisingly well-behaved. You didn't try to buy a single painting." I aim for lightness, needing to break the intensity between us. "I'm impressed, Sainty. Maybe you can be trained after all."

His laugh echoes off the marble walls, rich and genuine, transforming his entire face. For a moment, I see the boy he used to be, before the weight of the Saint legacy crushed the joy out of him. The sound wraps around me like a familiar embrace, warming places I thought had gone cold years ago.

"There she is," he says softly, eyes dancing. "The girl who used to give me hell."

"Someone had to." I squeeze his hand once before letting go, ignoring how my palm tingles from the contact. "See you around, Saint."

As I walk away, I can feel his eyes on me, my skin burning under his gaze.

Each step feels heavier than the last, like my body is fighting its own retreat.

The light catches on the marble floors, creating patterns that blur as I move through them, my artist's eye noting how they shift and change—like everything else today.

I'm curled up on my window seat later, Evelyn's diary open in my lap, when my phone buzzes. Ares's name on the screen makes my heart skip, then race. My fingers tremble slightly as I answer.

"Hello?"

"I need to see you tomorrow." His voice is low, urgent. "There's something I need to show you."

I bite my lip, remembering how that worked out last time.

"I don't think that's a good idea. The paparazzi—"

"I'll come early. Seven AM."

"Seven—" I sputter, warmth replaced by indignation. "That's not a request, is it?"

"Nope." I can hear the smile in his voice, that familiar mix of Saint arrogance and boyish charm that always did dangerous things to my resolve. My stomach flips traitorously at the sound.

"You could just tell me now," I try, ignoring the way my pulse quickens at the thought of him in my space again. After today, after those moments in the museum where the air between us felt electric with possibility... "Phone calls are very efficient."

"Nice try, Red. But this needs to be face to face."

I close my eyes, remembering how his cologne lingered in the narrow gallery where we'd hidden, how his thumb had traced my cheek. My body apparently hasn't gotten the memo about maintaining appropriate boundaries with Ares Saint.

"We spent hours together today," I point out, aiming for reasonable. "Surely whatever it is could have come up then."

"I was distracted and forgot." There's something in his voice—intensity mixed with nervousness? "Come on, where's that curious artist I spent the morning with?"

"She's trying to be sensible." But I'm fighting a smile now. "Unlike some people who think seven AM is a reasonable time to exist."

"Scared to be alone with me again, Red?"

Yes. But not for the reasons I should be. "You wish, Saint."

"So that's a yes?" The warmth in his laugh does things to my insides that I refuse to acknowledge. "I'll bring coffee. That fancy hazelnut stuff you used to enjoy so much."

My breath catches. He remembers that? The simple detail hits me harder than any grand gesture could, stirring memories of shared mornings in his family's kitchen, before everything fell apart.

"Fine. Seven AM. But if there are photographers outside my building again—"

"There won't be. Trust me?"

Those two words shouldn't affect me like this. Shouldn't make my heart race and my skin flush with memories of the last time he asked me to trust him—behind the garden maze, his fingers fastening the compass necklace around my throat. "Seven AM," I repeat, ignoring his question. "Don't be late."

"Wouldn't dream of it."

I end the call before I can say something stupid, like how much I enjoyed today, or how his hand on the small of my back felt like coming home. The window glass is cool against my forehead as I lean against it, trying to slow my racing heart.

"Get it together," I mutter, pressing my heated cheeks against the cool window glass.

But as I try to return to Gran's diary, all I can think about is Ares in my space again, early morning light painting shadows across his impossibly perfect face, that cologne that makes me want to do very inadvisable things. ..

"I am so screwed."

My fingers trace the compass tattoo on the inside of my forearm—the one I got after his mother ripped away the real thing.

A permanent reminder of lessons learned the hard way.

But as I watch the city lights flicker to life outside my window, all I can feel is the heat of him pressed close in that narrow gallery, the electricity when his fingers touched my face.

My skin still burns where he touched me, like his fingerprints have been seared into my memory all over again.

And suddenly seven AM feels both too far away and not far enough.