Page 7 of His Vow

"Just Nolan."

She studied me over the rim. "You don't look like a Nolan."

"What does a Nolan look like?"

"Friendlier."

The corner of my mouth moved before I could catch it. A twitch. A fraction.

"There," she said quietly. Her eyes locked on the place where my mouth had betrayed me. "There you are."

She held my gaze. I held hers. The gallery noise pressed in from every side — laughter, heels, the murmur of conversations I didn't care about — and none of it reached us.

"Come on." She took my elbow and steered me toward the back of the gallery. "There's more."

The back room was narrow and quieter. Four smaller pieces hung on the wall. A window streaked with rain. A wooden chair with a folded shirt draped over its back. A pair of hands holding nothing, palms open, fingers slightly curled.

I moved past them. A canvas leaned against the far wall, face turned away. I reached for it, turned it around, and stopped.

It wasn't like the others. The brushwork was different — looser, more hesitant. A garden. Not a grand one. A balcony, tight and overgrown, with herbs in terra-cotta pots and light falling through leaves in scattered coins of gold. Each leaf was distinct, each shadow deliberate, but the composition had a privacy to it that made me feel like I was looking through someone's window.

"I want this one," I said.

Silence. I turned. She was standing in the doorway, one hand gripping the frame, her lips pressed tight.

"That's not Rafael's," she said.

"I know."

She opened her mouth and closed it. Her fingers tightened on the doorframe, her knuckles pressing white. "Are you sure?"

"I'm sure."

The grin that broke across her face rearranged everything. Wide, unguarded, her lower lip caught between her teeth for half a second before she gave up trying to contain it.

"Good choice," she said.

I pulled my phone from my inside pocket. I'd been turning it in my fingers throughout the conversation — a habit. The screen was facing down. I flipped it to check the time, and the notification caught me mid-breath.

I stared at it. My jaw tightened.

"Everything okay?" She'd seen the shift.

"Fine." I locked the screen and slid the phone into my jacket. "Family thing."

She didn't push. She stepped forward, and her fingers found my knuckles — a touch so light it was almost not there. A brush. A landing. Gone.

"I'm glad you came tonight," she said.

"I'd like to see you again."

Her eyes held mine. Then she reached for the phone I'd just put away, slipped it from my pocket, typed with both thumbs — her nail polish was dark plum — and pressed it back into my palm. Her fingers lingered on mine for one second past necessary.

"Don't wait three days," she said. "I don't like games."

She rose on her toes and kissed my cheek. Her lips were warm. The rosemary scent was stronger here, at the curve of her jaw, where her hair brushed my face.

She pulled back, smiled, turned, and walked back into her gallery. Bare feet on concrete, curls swinging between her shoulder blades.