04

« Cade, relax. Professor Luneta, right ? Just make it up to her. Say you want extra credit or something. So you weren’t paying attention, who cares ? Visit her office in the after-hours. She’ll forgive you. »

I try to make myself look cheered up. Guess who’s not winning an Oscar anytime soon ?

I can tell Vittoria isn’t buying it, but she pulls a strapless red dress out of her closet and says, « What do you think ? »

« If I wasn’t as flat as the wall, then maybe. »

« Oh, Cade. I’d kill to not have a chest, I just look like a stripper in whatever I wear. »

« At least that means people would pay you, » I mumble.

Vittoria throws the red dress onto the bed and pulls out another one. A blue-sequined thing that would come up to my hips.

Before she even opens her mouth, I’m shaking my head.

« Cade, » she groans. « You’re going to see your girl tonight. You have to make yourself look as sexy as possible. »

« We don’t even know that for sure she’s going to be there ! And she’s not my anything. »

« I do ! And she will be, if you wear this. » Vittoria holds up another dress, and this time, I don’t have any protests.

It’s silver, with a soft shimmer that looks like I’m wrapped in threads of starlight.

Vittoria sees my face and pounces. « Come on, try it on. You know you want to. »

I won’t even lie. I do want to.

« SO NOW THAT WE ARE officially the hottest girls here tonight, what’s our first order of action ? »

I blush, but I don’t deny it. With Vittoria’s deep forest-green dress hugging her waist and then spilling to the ground, her black hair pinned up into an elegant twist, eyes glittering with dark makeup, she’s absolutely beautiful. Half the boys here are staring at her―especially one, who I recognize with that smirk.

I couldn’t even lie if I wanted to. This dress clings to every single of my nonexistent curves, tight at every angle. Molten moonlight.

As we walk up the glistening gold of the marble steps, the night sky cool around us, I clench my fingers around my small purse. Nervous.

What if I do see that woman ?

How do I start a conversation with someone who I don’t remember meeting ? Whose bed I woke up in ? Who let me wear her helmet as we drove to my university ?

And never said goodbye ?

I follow Vittoria into the high-ceilinged foyer of the museum. It’s familiar―too familiar. I remember my daydream earlier today. The ornate pillars, the white columns.

But I’ve seen the museum in pictures. It doesn’t mean anything.

« Look, here’s the food, » says Vittoria, dragging me towards the red-clothed table. Piled high with lavish desserts that smell like me putting on ten pounds, I reach for a canoli.

My hand brushes someone else’s.

I recognize him instantly. The smirk.

« I’m Dante. Dante Rosso. »

I raise an eyebrow. « I’m Cade. Cade Conti. Are we in a James Bond movie ? »

Mysteriously, Vittoria has disappeared.

Dante Rosso narrows his eyes, unfairly long lashes brushing against his amber skin. His eyes are blue―unusual for an Italian.

« Oh, they’re filming right now, » he says with a wink.

A heartbreaker. Definitely a heartbreaker.

« So what brings you here tonight ? » he asks in that smooth way.

I put the canoli on a napkin and we walk towards a table. People have started to flow in through the grand doors, and soft, lighthearted music is playing.

« I’m a student, » I say, blushing. « At the university. »

« Well, me too, » he says. « And I must confess―I recognize you. Didn’t Luneta kick you out today ? »

Mouth full of canoli, I groan. « Oh, you were in my class ? »

« You weren’t wrong, » he says with a devilish grin. « She is boring. But nobody likes to hear that, do they ? »

« I just couldn’t help it ! » I say. « And please. I don’t need another lecture. »

Laughing, fingers dusted with powdered sugar, I almost don’t notice.

I almost don’t see.

Her.

Walking away.

If I know one thing, it’s that she’s not getting away this time.

I leave Dante mid-sentence and stumble through the crowd, trying to find her.

Red dress, dark, flowing hair―how hard could it be ?

I manage to chase her out into an empty hallway of the museum. I can hear the click of marble heels echoing down a corner, and I rush towards her, gathering my skirt and pulling it down my hips so it doesn’t slide up.

« Hey ! » I cry out. « Hey, wait ! »

I don’t even have a name to call her. Does she even want to see me ? No, it doesn’t matter―even if I have to hunt her down, I don’t care. I just want to see her once more, this woman I spent the night with, who gave me her helmet and drove me on the back of a motorcycle. Who has the infamous painting Desperate Dancer in her room.

Who claims that I planned a heist. And we stole it together.

I find myself in the middle of an empty gallery. The lights are closed, save for small spotlights, and it gives me the feeling of being alone in an abandoned work of art. There are paintings on the walls, beautiful pieces that I’ve never seen before.

Caught in a trance, I can’t help but stare at the art. I could lose myself in this magic, this beauty. I could spent the whole day here, staring into the soul of some work done hundreds of years ago.

The artwork I’m looking at is a haunting portrayal of two naked bodies, tangled together. By the way it was done, it’s impossible to tell what gender they are, but it’s clear that they’re engaged in something intimate.

Something sensual, raw.

I grow warm at the thought of those golden paint strokes, the tender depiction of skin and flesh and heat. Great―I’m turned on by a painting.

Before I can turn away, I feel a hand on my shoulder.

« Hello. »

It’s the woman. Her hair falls down her back in glossy, luscious curls. Her dress looks like it has come straight out of a movie centuries ago, an elegant gown of hundreds of scarlet folds, twisted around her like she’s a princess, or a queen. It’s so different from the sleek, sexy clothes everyone else is wearing that I gaze openmouthed for an amount of time that is unbearably awkward.

« What― » I try to collect myself. « What are you doing here ? »

The woman grins, her red mouth curving into a slow, delicious smile. « I think the better question is why you followed me. »

I step back. Tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. I feel undone, out of breath. « I just . . . wanted to see where you’re going. »

I wanted to see you again.

I don’t say it. I can’t say it.

Suddenly, I stammer out, « Thank you, by the way. »

Her mouth quirks into a small smile. « You’re welcome. But for what ? »

I love that lush Italian accent. I don’t think I could get enough of it.

« For driving me to university, that day, » I say. « And lending me your helmet. That was . . . kind of you. »

« Well, I am ever the gentleman. »

I know how we must look : two girls, five feet apart in an empty gallery, the lights dimmed low. There is art all around us, and there’s art in her―in the way she smiles, in the way she steps closer. Bridging that distance.

« I wanted to know . . . » I can’t say it. How can I say it ? I want to know you. I want to . . . I look down, trying not to focus on the gathering of her bodice, the way it lifts her breasts to the light. The smooth, warm skin looks like it would be soft. I want to trail my fingers over that edge, to plunge them between the valley of her breasts.

« I wanted to know your name, » I say, looking away. « So I would know who to give my thanks to. »

The woman blinks, as though caught in headlights. The questions looks like it has thrown her off, left her speechless. Her eyes gleam tawny, almost like liquid honey.

« My name is . . . Violetta. »

It sounds like music. It sounds like art.

It also sounds like a lie.

I step closer to her. I could reach out and touch her, drag my fingers down that slender shoulder. Cup her jaw in my hand.

« My name is Cade, » I breathe.

I don’t care if her name is a lie. In this moment, all I want to do is feel her against me.

« Hello, Cade, » she says, but I’m having a conversation with her mouth. That supple, crimson-painted mouth. I wonder what her lipstick tastes like.

She leans closer to me. I can feel her breath. Lemon and verbena. I want to kiss the scent off of her.

The tension is thick enough to touch. I can’t breathe.

« Do you want to see something ? » she says, and the moment is cut as though by the knife of her voice.