Page 46 of Sweet Surrender
Max pressed a hand to his chest. “And I will be expecting free tickets to opening night and a mention during your speech.”
“Go home,” Allie said kindly. “Before I decide the plinths need to be moved yet again.”
Max’s expression collapsed into horror. “You are a very cruel woman.”
“I am a very talented curator,” Allie corrected.
“Same thing,” he said, grabbing his messenger bag from the floor. Then he pointed between the two of them. “Do not break anything valuable. And by valuable, I mean art. What you do to each other is none of my business.”
“Goodbye, Max,” Barra said.
He backed toward the door. “Goodbye, future Mrs. Chen-Jones. Goodbye, other future Mrs. Chen-Jones. I support whatever hyphenated bliss you two have planned.”
The front door chimed when he left, and for one blissful second, the gallery held its breath. There was no foot traffic, no Max huffing and puffing, and no tape measure snapping back into place. There was simply the quietness of the unfinished space, the smell of fresh paint and sawdust, and the late-afternoon light splaying across the concrete floor.
Allie turned back to Barra. Barra’s face had changed. Her smile turned wicked in a way Allie knew very well.
“Why are you smiling like that?” Allie asked, even though she knew exactly why.
“You sent him home.”
“I thanked him first.”
“Yes, you did. That was very kind and professional of you.”
“I am kind and professional.”
Barra’s gaze dropped to Allie’s mouth. “You’re also looking at me like you’re about to do something deeply unprofessional.”
Allie stepped closer and hooked her fingers lightly into the waistband of Barra’s jeans. “I was thinking I should thank you too.”
“For what?”
“For supporting me and for pretending not to panic every time I rearranged the hanging schedule.” Allie tugged her closer, just enough that Barra’s body met hers. “That couldn’t have been easy for you.”
“It wasn’t,” Barra said, her voice dropping. “You moved the same painting seven times.”
“Five.”
“Seven.”
Allie smiled, sliding her palms beneath the hem of Barra’s shirt. Her fingertips found warm skin, and Barra’s breath caught before she could hide it. “You survived it, though.”
“I survivedOutlast Hertwice. From here on out, I think I can survive anything.”
Allie’s heart squeezed so sharply it almost hurt. Then she kissed Barra, not gently, not carefully, but with a hunger that had been waiting beneath the whole day. Barra made a small sound against her mouth and pulled her in. Her hands settled at Allie’s waist like they belonged there.
They did belong there.
They had belonged there in the jungle. In the rain. On the beach. In every quiet morning after filming the TV show.
Allie backed her toward the rear of the gallery, past the plinths, past the wrapped canvases leaning against the wall, past a crate marked FRAGILE in thick black letters.
Barra broke the kiss just long enough to glance over her shoulder. “Where are we going?”
“The back room.”
“The back room,” Barra repeated, and her eyebrows lifted. “That sounds suspiciously like a gallery version of a bathroom stall at a wedding.”
