Chapter 7

I woke to the soft gray light of early morning filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the gallery director's office. For a moment, I didn't remember where I was—the leather scent of the couch, the unfamiliar angle of the ceiling. Then the warmth beside me shifted, and a familiar arm tightened around my waist, and it all came flooding back. The low mid-century couch was not designed for two people to sleep on, but we had made it work. Arthur lay behind me, his chest pressed against my back, his arm draped over my hip, his breath warm against my neck. The wool fabric was rough against my bare skin, and the silk of my discarded dress lay in a puddle on the floor beside us. One of his suit jackets was draped over my shoulders, a makeshift blanket he must have arranged during the night. I turned slowly, careful not to wake him, wanting to memorize this moment. The office looked different in the morning light. The sculptures outside the window were silhouetted against a pale pink sky, and the books on the shelves cast long shadows across the walnut paneling. He looked younger in sleep, the lines of