The Art of Curating Romance - Chapter 1, Part 2

One day, she was rearranging the wall labels on the third floor before the gallery opened. She had around three minutes to do this and had exactly zero patience for a surprise visit from an arrogant academic. 

She stood on a stool, fiddling with the placement of a caption beneath Madonna and Child with Two Angels. The lighting had finally been fixed, the security team briefed, and the catalogue copy proofread in time for tonight's opening of a new exhibition: Sacred & Profane: Layers of Renaissance Devotion. She'd once again thrown it together herself, although technically it was co-curated. No one needed to know how often her department head left her to carry the weight alone.

She was halfway down the ladder when she heard the unmistakable sound of excessively expensive Oxfords echoing across the room.

"This is the one you chose for the entry wall?"

Natalie took a sharp inhale, closed her eyes, and tried to calm down, though angry, flustered thoughts kept rapid firing in her brain. Of course he's here. It's Renaissance art. But still, why now?! 

She put a hand to her chest, feeling it pounding. He was making her heart race (in anger).

She turned.

He stood there in front of the altarpiece, arms crossed and wearing a black turtleneck like he'd been born in one. His hair was carelessly tousled, and his expression was amused.

"Didn't realize you were moonlighting as a critic," she said coolly, stepping down from the ladder. "Or did you get lost on your way to the lecture hall?"

He smiled. "I was invited. Honored visiting faculty perks."

"Then feel free to advise silently."

Martin strolled farther into the gallery, hands in his pockets and looking bemused. "The layout is tighter than I expected. Are you trying to emphasize iconographic contrast?"

The downward lilt of the question made Natalie bristle inexplicably. Infuriating. His British poshness makes it even worse.

"I'm emphasizing devotional complexity," she replied. "But I don't suppose that's good enough for the likes of you."

He gave a soft laugh. "I wouldn't say that. Why are you so prickly, Rosetti?"

"Why are you so smug, Laurent?"

He just laughed at that. Natalie turned her back to him, adjusting another label, willing her pulse to calm. By this point, all the labels had been perfectly adjusted, and she was just fidgeting with them to have something to do other than face this man.

"I'm giving a talk on Botticelli in a week," he said casually. "Have you seen?"

"I have."

"You should come," he said. "Might learn something."

She smiled sweetly without looking up from what she was doing. "I'd rather sand the gallery floors with my teeth."

He chuckled, and it irritated her how much warmth there was in the sound. She turned around, about to give him some other snarky comment, and promptly collided with him. 

"Oof," she heard him say as she stumbled back. She reached out for something to regain her balance. Unfortunately, that something was his sleeve.

The next moment, she had fallen back against the wall, pulling him with her. He loomed over her, his body nearly pressed to hers. They stood there, Martin looking at her with an expression she couldn't quite place. She gulped, blinking and trying to look away from his sharp blue eyes, but looking back after a moment. Something about him made her feel... coiled. Like her heart was being stretched and wrapped around something. 

Martin shifted slightly, as if unsure whether to speak. "I..." he started.

"I have to go back to opening the gallery," she somehow managed to choke out.

"Okay," he murmured. But she caught the flicker of hesitation as he pulled away, and before she could stop herself, she found herself inching closer, like he exuded a sort of magnetism. Their eyes locked again, and the air seemed to crackle. 

Martin's lips parted. And then, before she could stop herself, she found herself diving into a kiss. 

Their lips crashed, the world suddenly a messy blur — the feel of his lips on hers, his hands cradling her cheek, and her finger winding through his hair. He had an aromatic glow of a cinnamon aftershave, and it felt strangely good to run her hands over his firm, hard chest. She wondered what it felt like beneath that black turtleneck...

And then, as if suddenly submerged in cold water, she came to. She shoved him away, and the two of them broke apart.

Martin's breath was heavy, and Natalie's chest rose and fell with the same rapid rhythm. She couldn't look at him. She felt dizzy. Her hands were trembling, and she brushed her hair from her face, brushing past him.

"What the hell—" she muttered. Martin reached towards, her, but stopped just shy of touching her wrist. 

"Uh..." he said, his voice coming out huskier than before. "Erm. This... was...?"

"A mistake," she blurted immediately.

"Ah. Yes." He cleared his throat.

"Yup. Well. Uh..." She looked around wildly for an excuse, then pivots on her heels. "I have to go." Before he could say another word, she bolted out the gallery as fast as she could, heart racing.