The Art of Curating Romance - Chapter 7

Winter break came and went. They'd exchanged numerous texts over the holidays (mostly work related, of course), but Natalie had tried to convince herself that it all meant nothing. Especially not the instances where they would delve into more... casual territories. Not his good morning texts. Not anything.

And yet, she had a foreboding that she would be proven devastatingly wrong when she returned back to the little museum at the university.

Natalie stood by the small desk in the museum’s education room, staring down at the stack of printed slides like they might catch fire if she blinked too hard. Her heart was ticking too loudly. The title page read: “Image, Intention, and Influence: A Conversation with the Greats of the Renaissance.”

It was supposed to be her lecture. She'd prepped throughout the break for it, poring over countless books and articles, and yet, she felt like a fraud.

She heard the door creak gently behind her. 

"Why, if it isn't my favorite curmudgeonly curator."

She turned around, trying to suppress a smile. But for some reason, when she saw him standing there in his customary sweater and slacks, blue eyes and brown hair and bold gaze in all of their glory, she felt her heart leap. She wouldn't dare to say that she missed him. How could she? He was a nuisance colleague that she'd accidentally kissed a few times, that was all. And yet, she felt like she'd been locked away without oxygen for the past two weeks, and was now replenishing something essential to her.

"Martin," she said, nodding at him and trying to keep cool. "The British art bro." But her insult didn't have the bite that it used to have. 

He bounded over to her, and in a stark contrast to the stilted waltzing around each other that they'd done before the break, he was so close that she could smell his aroma. Familiar. Calming. Magnetic.

"What are you doing?" he asked. 

"I..." She gulped. Focus, Natalie. "I'm looking over these documents. For the lecture." 

She watched as he shuffled through the papers. Suddenly, she started feeling small again. Even more so than usual when it came to this. She was suddenly very aware of how she wanted Martin's approval, and she wanted to slap herself for it. You never cared before, she scolded herself. Why do you care so much now?

"It's no good," she said. "I've gone through it multiple times."

“It's too early to rehearse,” Martin softly reproached.

She gave him a weak smile without turning. “Too late to back out.”

He glanced at her, voice careful. “How long have you been here?”

“Since eight. Doors were still locked.” She tried for humor, but it landed flat.

“And you've been rehearsing all this time? You still have some time yet, you know."

She shook her head. “Barely. The students are coming back in a week. We need to have this done.”

He flipped through another page. “It's very thoroughly done. And I know you know this material. There's really nothing to worry so much about. You don't need to rehearse so diligently.”

“That’s not the part I’m worried about,” she said quietly.

There was a pause.

He didn’t press, just continued looking at her with something almost like tenderness in those blue eyes.

Natalie exhaled and sat on the edge of the desk, fingers clutching the edge of the paper.

“I was supposed to give a lecture once,” she said, not quite looking at him. “Years ago. During my PhD. Which I didn't finish, by the way." She gave a stilted scoff. "My supervisor was meant to introduce me, stay for the first ten minutes. Standard practice.”

Martin didn’t interrupt, instead sitting down. All the while, he didn't take his eyes off of her.

She continued, eyes fixed on a spot in the middle distance.

“Instead, my supervisor stayed the whole time. He corrected me, interrupted me. Mid-sentence, in front of the class. Smirked when I got nervous. And after it ended, he told me I didn’t sound like someone who belonged in front of students.”

Martin’s jaw tightened, but he kept his voice level. “That’s appalling.”

“Yes. Humiliating,” she said. “I went home and vomited. I never tried again. Not until now.”

There was silence for a moment. It wasn't uncomfortable. But Natalie took a seat, feeling shaken all over again. The weight of the memory had dragged on her for all these years. 

She'd never shared with anyone before the real reason why never finished her PhD. Not with her parents, or anyone. Only Lucy knew, and only part of the story at that. She clasped her hands in front of her on the table, looking down at them.

Then, slowly, Martin reached out and brushed a lock of hair behind her ear. She flinched, just barely, butterflies fluttering in her stomach. He didn’t rush the moment.

“I wish I could go back and be in that room,” he said. “Not to defend you. You wouldn’t have needed defending. But just to see the look on his face when you outshone him.”

She swallowed hard. The words poured over her, and she was suddenly overwhelmed.

"You know,” he said softly, “I nearly quit too.”

Natalie turned to him, startled. “You?”

He gave a quiet, breathy laugh. “I had a lecture once. In Florence, actually. It was on Botticelli’s Mystic Nativity. I argued that the angelic ecstasy wasn’t just divine but apocalyptic. A kind of visual panic. That the joy wasn’t simple, it was manic, desperate. A last gasp after centuries of silence.”

“That sounds... amazing,” she whispered.

“Apparently not,” he said with a dry smile. “A critic wrote a piece the next week. Called it ‘a gratuitous provocation under the guise of revisionism.’ Accused me of intellectual sensationalism. Said I had no respect for traditionalist reading. After that, the invitations dried up. Journals hesitated. A colleague quietly suggested I ‘return to something less inflammatory.’”

Natalie’s brows drew together.

“That’s why I came here,” he said. “Not to disappear. Just… to start again. To teach. To listen. To publish small, careful pieces and work with students who aren’t keeping score.”

She didn’t speak, but she was looking at him, chest filled with warmth. She wanted to reach out to him. She wanted to touch him. 

Martin leaned forward. His voice dropped, warm and close.

“You’re not them, Natalie. You see things differently. And that’s why your lecture matters. And it's going to be a damned good one at that.”

She closed her eyes. The trembling had stopped. All that was left was the quiet echo of shared pain. A soft hush of something tender, something akin to understanding.

Then, before she could think too much about it, she let her head tip forward, gently resting against his chest. He didn’t move, just let her lean. One hand rose to stroke her hair, slow and steady, as if he were combing through all the knots she’d never admitted were there.

She closed her eyes.

“You’re not that scared student anymore,” he said, voice low against her temple. “You’re bloody brilliant. You’re already doing the work. Now you just get to speak it aloud.”

Natalie breathed in the scent of his sweater, that cinnamon aroma, the smell of clean cotton, a hint of paper, and something deeper. The tension in her shoulders eased, just slightly.

“I don’t think anyone’s ever said something that nice to me,” she murmured. "Thank you."

They stayed like that for a while. In silence, with only the quiet pulse of something tender and new, warming in the small space between them.

-

That night, as Natalie came home to her humble abode, she felt her heart beating rapidly. She felt feverish. And she couldn't keep thoughts of Martin out of her head.

She tried her best to distract herself. Tried to watch another run of Friends. Tried to do some rigorous cardio on her exercise bicycle. Tried to bake something to get her mind off of him, but that failed miserably as she recalled their conversation about baking shows, and then the thought of him standing there next to her as she spoon-fed him some of her lemon drizzle cake batter haunted her. 

She imagined him pressing up close to her. "Mm, smells heavenly," he would say, his voice deep and sultry.

Her cheeks flushed at the thought, imagining him then leaning against the counter, his shirt unbuttoned. He'd be wearing that pinstripe button down he sometimes wore when he had an important lecture to give. He'd have that knowing smile on his lips. 

He'd take a step closer, his eyes darkening. "Can I taste?"

Her breath would hitched at that innocent question, her nerves sight alight. She would lift the spatula to his lips. And as the cake batter touched his tongue, his eyes would close, taking in the sweet taste. She couldn't help imagine those lips tasting something far more decadent. 

Then he'd cup her face, his thumb lingering at the corner of her mouth, tracing the outline of her lips before he leaned down and kissed her. She remembered every detail of his lips, it seemed. The soft parts, the rougher ridges, the pent-up, masculine energy. 

Their tongues would dance together, the tang of lemon and sugar mingling with the heat of their desire. Her hands would find their way to his shirt, eagerly working the buttons free to expose his hard, muscular chest. And he, in turn, would let his hands roam over her body as he pressed her up against the kitchen counter. They'd lift the hem of her shirt, reveal her breasts, wick his fingertips over the peaks of her nipples. And he'd lick a line all the way from her collarbone to her navel, teeth grazing the sensitive skin and sending shivers of pleasure through her, all the way down until her most sensitive areas...

She gasped and sat up from the couch, staring down at herself in shock. "My god," she muttered to herself. "What is wrong with me?"

She went to the bathroom to splash some cold water on her face. I am going insane. I am going insane, she kept repeating to herself in her head. But interspersed with her panicked thoughts were tender recollections of that afternoon with Martin. The need for him to be there with her. The desire for him to belong to her, and her to him.

When had she ever felt like this? She'd dated before, of course, and had felt the blistering, explosiveness of attraction and infatuation many times in her life. But this... was something different. It scared her.

"Fuck," she muttered to herself, pacing back and forth in the small tiled space.

She got out her phone. Lucy was back at her school and Natalie was back in her own apartment, but in times like these, Lucy had always been the person that Natalie went to. She texted her sister:

Natalie: Luce... I need your help. Are you around to call? 

Right away, Lucy replied.

Lucy: What's the matter?

Natalie: I hate to admit it, but I think you were right. I think I've got it bad. 

Lucy: ??

Lucy: Omg. For who??

Natalie: For that guy I was texting before, my colleague, my kind-of arch-nemesis. Professor Martin Laurent.