I strolled through the lobby of the building, eyeing the artwork. One painting in particular drew me in. It was oil on canvas, an abstract, but the darkness of the work immediately made my heart sad.

I wasn’t sure why. I couldn’t discern any actual images, but the dark reds and blues were twisted together in a corkscrew pattern that almost seemed like a crash into some secret madness.

“Wow,” I said out loud.

“What do you think?”

I jerked slightly at the low voice behind me. I turned and held back a gasp. The most beautiful man I’d ever laid eyes on stood a foot away from me, his dark eyes meeting my gaze. He was tall, almost a foot taller than I was. Thank goodness for stilettos. His nearly black hair was long and pulled back into a low ponytail. He wore a crisp designer suit but no tie, the top two buttons of his white cotton shirt undone. Dark stubble graced his jawline.

“Wow,” I said again.

“Thank you,” he said.

Warmth crept up to my cheeks. He’d asked what I thought of the painting, but I wasn’t responding to his query. The “wow” was all him.

“For…what?” I asked.

“For the compliment.”

“Oh. You mean…? I didn’t mean…”

He chuckled softly. “It’s mine.”

“What?” My thoughts were a jumble.

“The painting. It’s my work.”

I lifted my brow. This perfect human was an artist? I looked back at the painting for a signature. I didn’t see one, though there was a small symbol at the bottom, like a brand. “It’s fascinating.”

“It’s nice to find someone around here who appreciates art,” he said.

“Oh, I definitely do. I paint myself now and then, though I’ve never created anything so moving.”

“Where did you study?” he asked.

Warmth to the cheeks again. “I…didn’t. I mean, I didn’t go to college.”

He let out a soft sound that sounded almost like a scoff. “Most college art programs are overrated. The great ones aren’t teaching. They’re creating. You’re probably better off.”

“Hmm. I never looked at it that way.”

“What do you see?” he asked me.

“I’m hardly qualified to—”

“You’re looking at it. It means something to you. That qualifies you.”

I stood silently for a few seconds. How could I discuss this magnificent work of art with the man who painted it?

“Go ahead,” he prodded. “I’d really like to know.”

“It’s…dark yet beautiful. The way the brushstrokes—”

“Forget about the brushstrokes. Forget about the technique. Tell me what you see.”

“I see…secrecy.”

“And what do you feel?”

“I feel”—I forced my mind to conjure a word that defined the empty feeling—“wistful, I guess.”

“You guess?”