True Art

Chapter Six

REMINGTON'S POV

Matthew was late. I watched as he ran towards me, the panic visible even from a distance. I'd arrived on time and had been standing outside the entrance to Archer's Gallery for twenty minutes. I had been staring into space when Matthew had come into sight, his dark hair flopping around as he rushed towards me, pink cheeks and red lips adding to his gorgeous face.

"Good morning, Matt. How nice of you to join me," I called out, teasing him.

"Oh. My. God," he said, panting and then paused for a second before throwing his arms around me in a hug.

I hadn't expected it and stumbled back a little in surprise. He felt amazing, the heat from his body radiating through his shirt and the firmness of his arms around my shoulders.

"I'm so, so, so sorry. I thought it would be quicker to take a taxi instead of the train, but then there was a breakdown at the junction at the bridge, and then we sat there for forever. I got out and started running and..." He exhaled, and I couldn't help laughing.

"It's okay. You're here now. Do you need a minute?"

He blinked and then shook his head. "No, I'm good. Sorry." He fixed his blue denim shirt and straightened himself up after running, his breath still fast. His dark, curly hair was even more tousled, strands falling across his forehead and he looked how I imagined he would look after sex.

Distracted by the strands of hair gleaming under the morning sun, I reached out my hand and brushed a strand of his hair back that had fallen onto his forehead. I did it before I could stop myself, and he looked at me, eyes wide in surprise.

What am I doing touching him like that?

I knew I was in trouble by his grin and the glint in his eyes. I wanted him more than I'd ever wanted anyone, and I couldn't seem to stop myself.

"What was that?" he said, chuckling as he ran his hand over his hair, tracing where mine had been as though reliving my touch.

"Sorry, I don't know why I did that."

"That's okay. It was nice. You could do with the same?" He looked at me and reached up, threading his fingers into my short brown hair. "You look like you've been battling a bush." He brushed and caressed until he seemed happy with his work, as I stood silently. Speechless.

For a second, I imagined those same fingers, wrapped tightly around a different part of my body. I shivered, and, as if reading my mind, Matthew stepped closer and smirked.

"Let me know if I can do anything else for you."

My breath caught a little and I coughed, avoiding Matthew's gaze and those dimples that were slowly undoing me. I could think of plenty of things I'd like him to do for me.

Stop it. I can't think like that. This is strictly business.

"Come on. Let's go inside. I want to purchase two antique candle holders for a client of mine."

Two hours passed in the blink of an eye before my stomach rumbled with hunger and Matthew began to look a little worse for wear. I had taken him to a few antique stores and small galleries that I thought he might like, and where I might find what I needed. I'd secured a few nice pieces, and discovered a fantastic new artist that I was eager to show to my clients. In one antique store, I'd found a beautiful gold mirror that would be perfect for my hall. I bought it while Matthew perused the piles of treasure. He seemed to have an eye for things, naturally gravitating towards the pieces I myself would like.

After about forty minutes rummaging in my favourite antique store in Dublin, I'd spotted Matthew swooning over a small round thimble-sized item made of brass. It was tarnished, and I wasn't sure what it was at first. When I'd gotten a chance to look at it properly without him noticing, I'd realized it was a tiny antique pot that painters would have used to hold linseed oil for mixing their paints. Matthew casually returned to it a few times, touching it gently as he walked past. There was something about the way he touched it, so delicate yet deliberate.

God knew what I was thinking, but when Matthew wasn't looking, I bought the pot. Now I was debating with myself whether to give it to him or not. It wouldn't be strange to give a gift to a man you'd known two days, would it?

Yes, yes it would.

Christ. I really needed to get a grip. I shoved the gift into my jacket pocket and vowed to hold onto it for a while longer.

"I'm starving," Matthew muttered as the door jingled on our way out.

"Mmm, me too. Want to grab some lunch? Or do you need to head off...?" My voice trailed off, and I stuffed my hands into my pockets, glancing around the sunny street in an attempt to avoid his gaze.

"I've nowhere else to be. Food sounds good. What about pizza?"

"I don't mind. Wherever you'd like to go."

Matthew beckoned for me to follow him, and we set off down the street together. It was hard to ignore how content I felt in his presence. Everything about him seemed to make me feel happy. Even if it still didn't make sense.

He looked over at me and smiled nervously. "This way. It's not far. Cheap and cheerful, but it's authentic Italian food. Really tasty."

The last Italian restaurant I'd been in was in Milan, but I just followed him, stealing glances when I could. I'd be happy to eat on a park bench with him.