She walks me through to the side room, which has a set of recessed double doors that require her to scan a small key fob before they sweep open. The room is expansive but bare. There are four white walls and four paintings, each one spaced out on its own so there can be no confusion about each of their respective importance.

Lainey’s an expert in her field. There’s not a fact about the four pieces that she doesn’t know off the top of her head: price, provenance, comparable works, and details about the artist’s creative process. I didn’t come here today to purchase art or even to learn about it, but I can’t seem to interrupt her. I’m too interested in what she has to say.

We finally come to stand in front of the Hockney she wanted me to see. It’s a landscape made of vibrant, saturated colors entitled Garrowby Hill. Its composition is reminiscent of Van Gogh and Matisse, and she tells me a different version of the same painting is owned by the Boston Museum of Fine Arts.

“Though I prefer this one.”

She’s eagerly watching me take it in, leaning slightly forward on the balls of her feet to be nearer to me. It’s clear she wants me to like it as much as she does, and I find I do enjoy the painting, but I’m mostly just enjoying her.

“I like it,” I say with a simple nod.

She deflates. “But you don’t love it.”

I almost apologize for how sad she looks, and she must see some bit of remorse on my otherwise hard features because she waves her hand.

“No, no, it’s fine. I’d rather you were perfectly honest with me. That way I can cultivate a taste for what you like. You had me fooled the other night at the exhibition, I think. You acted as if you didn’t care what piece your designers chose so long as it was expensive. Quite a macho move, buying art like that. I think all the women were fanning themselves.”

“It was a little overdone. I’m a bit embarrassed about that, actually. I got carried away trying to get a pretty girl’s attention.”

She laughs. “You’re kidding.” Then she leans in, hoping for some salacious piece of gossip. “Who? Was it one of the designers? Because I did think that redhead was gorgeous.”

I merely stand there with my hands tucked into my pockets and peer down at her, spellbound by her innocence.

Her eyes go round with shock when clarity sets in. She opens her mouth, closes it, half-steps back, looks to me as if about to say something, then finally walks away, toward the painting across the room. It’s like she wants to pretend the last few seconds never happened, wipe them totally clean.

I stay rooted to my spot, giving her time to get her bearings. I don’t know why I said that. It’s stating the obvious. She’s stunning, yes, but I don’t think that needed to be acknowledged out loud and in such an overtly flirtatious way. I didn’t come here today in pursuit of her, at least not romantically.