Behind the curved receptionist’s desk in front us, a wide white wall displayed a single painting. Off to the right, at a back of a large open gallery space, at least twenty kids and a dozen adults sat on stools behind easels. A mountain landscape projected onto a white wall explained the landscape painted on the canvases in varying degrees of skill. Clusters of pink and purple balloons and a sparkly “Happy Birthday” banner hanging from the ceiling told me we had just walked into the birthday party of a little girl who loved art.

A thin woman with golden-brown shoulder-length hair approached us. “Can I help you?”

Daniel smiled. “I think we may have stumbled into the wrong suite. Is this the art studio that opened in May?”

“Yes, it is. But as you can see, we’re hosting a private event tonight,” she replied, looking sincerely apologetic. “I’m Layla, by the way. I’m the studio director.”

Daniel appeared undaunted by this bad news. “Nice to meet you, Layla. I’m Daniel. I’m very sorry we interrupted your event.”

“Oh, no. I’m the one who should be sorry,” the studio director said, herding us back toward the exit. “Sometimes our receptionist forgets to put private events on the website calendar, and I have no idea how to do it myself. I’m very sorry for the confusion. I hope you didn’t travel too far to get here.”

Daniel answered before I could. “We drove here from Montreal. We’re Canadian.”

The woman’s brow crinkled. “Oh, no. Now, I feel absolutely terrible.”

Daniel smiled as he put his hand on her arm. “I’m only kidding. We live down the street. I’m sure you’ll see us again soon.”

She let out a dramatic sigh as she clutched her chest. “Oh, my goodness. You nearly gave me a heart attack,” she said with a weak chuckle.

As Daniel began to apologize, a young girl with bouncy blonde curls walked up to him and yanked on his coat sleeve. “Are you the president?” she asked in a bright voice.

Daniel looked down at her and tilted his head. “No, sweetheart, I’m not the President of the United States. But I am the president of my house. Voted in by a landslide.”

She looked skeptical of this answer. “You can’t be the president of a house,” she proclaimed.

Daniel looked appalled by this new information. “Are you telling me my sister lied to me? I’m not the president?”

The girl squinted at him in confusion for a moment before she smiled and squealed, “No!”

Daniel feigned sadness. “This changes everything.”

The girl tapped her finger on her chin, as if she was pondering something. “You can still paint a picture, even if you’re not the president,” she said, pointing at the other children and parents, who appeared to be taking a painting class.

In the corner, just beyond the dozen or so easels, a table was piled high with frilly wrapped birthday presents and a three-tier princess-themed birthday cake.

Daniel smiled. “That’s very kind of you, but this isn’t our party. We’re just leaving. You go have fun, sweetheart. I need to go have a stern conversation with my sister.”

A rush of warmth flowed through me as I watched this exchange.

Daniel was good with kids.

He was good in business.

Great at tackling belligerent customers.

Even better at repairing broken door buzzers.

He was a natural protector and provider.

He glanced at me as he continued speaking to the girl, and the warmth in his smile made my ovaries explode.

“Kristin?”

“Yes?”

He laughed as he realized I hadn’t heard a single word he’d said. “This young lady would like for us to join the party. Care to brush up on your art skills?”

The hopeful expression on the girl’s face was too adorable to resist.

“Sure. I could use a refresher course.”

The girl bounced up and down with glee. “Yay! This is the best birthday ever!”

The studio director shrugged as we all headed toward the easels. “Rebecca is very exuberant.”

“Is this your party, Rebecca?” Daniel asked.

Rebecca nodded forcefully. “I’m six now.”

Layla, the studio director, introduced us to the parents and children, who were busy painting what looked like the same scenic mountain view. When the introductions were over, Layla gave us each an easel, a cup of water, some paintbrushes, and a set of watercolors. The chalky scent of the paints made me nostalgic for the innocence and simplicity of elementary school, where my love of art began.

Layla instructed us to make our best attempt at painting a mountain scene displayed on the wall by a film projector. Oddly enough, I recognized Mount St. Helens from the many photography blogs I followed. It was a common scene due to the sheer beauty of the landscape.

I began my painting by laying out a loose outline of the landscape in a light gray watercolor. When I was done, I tilted my head both ways to make sure the proportions were correct, then I began laying out each part of the scene according to distance and area. I started with the cobalt blue sky and billowy striations of cloud, then I moved on to the snowcapped mountain. This was when I noticed Daniel staring at my canvas. He hadn’t so much as touched his own.

“Why aren’t you painting?” I asked, dipping my brush into the black paint to darken the gray color I’d already made.

“Because I’m too fascinated by yours,” he replied, his eyes wide with genuine surprise.

I glanced around the room and realized he wasn’t the only one staring at my canvas. “It’s not even that good,” I muttered, barely loud enough to hear myself, but Daniel certainly heard me.

He chuckled. “Are you blind?” he said, rising from his stool so he could stand behind my left shoulder. “You need your own studio.”

“I have a studio in my bedroom,” I reminded him.

“No, you need a big studio, with huge windows and lots of natural light, where you can spend all day creating your creepy little sculptures.”

I rolled my eyes as I added some golden ochre to the gray shadows on the snowy mountain and the grass in the foreground. “Sure. I’ll get on that tomorrow, right after I pick up my Ferrari from the shop.”

“I’m sorry. That was insensitive of me,” he said, sitting down on his stool.

I waved off his apology. “No need to apologize. It’s not your fault,” I said, suddenly realizing how bitter I must have sounded. “Besides, that came out way more sarcastic than I intended. I shouldn’t be complaining. I should be grateful that I finally got a night off work and I’m doing something I love with someone I…think is pretty darn cool.”

What the hell was wrong with me? I was babbling like an idiot.

He smiled as he used his paintbrush to mix some colors on his palette. “So I’m cool?”

“Yeah, of course. You know you are. Don’t pretend it’s a surprise.”

He actually blushed as he mixed together some green and blue, then brushed it onto the canvas in wide swaths. “Can I ask you a question?” he said, trying to sound casual.

“It’s a free country.”

He was silent for a while, long enough that I thought he’d decided against asking his burning question. Then, he turned to me and looked me in the eye, his expression deadly serious. “What color is this?” he asked, pointing at my painting where I had begun adding the field of flowers in the foreground. “You’re so much better at this than I am.”

I shook my head. “It’s a dark coral. Those are called Indian paintbrush flowers. They’re beautiful.”

He smiled and went back to his painting. “Do you always apologize for being sarcastic?” he asked casually.

“No. It’s just that I dated a guy once who told me sarcasm wasn’t sexy. He said it made me sound depressed.”

Daniel laughed heartily. “Now that’s funny.” He shook his head as he continued brushing more blue paint onto the canvas. “Well, for what it’s worth, that guy was a jerk. I find your sarcasm extremely sexy.”

“Yeah, okay,” I said sarcastically, before I could stop myself.

He laughed even harder. “Never apologize for being yourself,” he added.

I tried not to smile, but I couldn’t stop myself. He was practically begging me to be myself, but who was I?

I knew who I was with Petra and my mom, the only two people who knew the real me. With them, I was mostly goofy, but often sardonic and borderline fatalistic. But it had been a long time since I’d allowed myself to let go, to be vulnerable, with anyone.

Feeling like my life had been decided for me, and my only purpose was to provide for someone else, had basically made me shut down. It was easy to believe I had nothing more to give, including and especially myself.

I swallowed the anxiety that was threatening to shut me down again. “So… You’ve seen where I live. How about you? Where do you live? Trump Tower?”

He shook his head. “Are you trying to imply that I’m presidential material?”

I turned to look him in the eye. “Answering a question with a question. Why am I not surprised?”

“Questions. Plural. Miss Nosy Owens.”

“How do you know my last name?”

He cocked an eyebrow in confusion. “Jerry said your last name on the day we met.”

“I know. I’m just bustin’ your balls.”

He shook his head and turned back to his painting. “You like bustin’ balls, huh? Were you picked on by your siblings or something?”

I shrugged. “I never had any siblings, unless you count my…”

“Your what?”

I focused on my breathing as I pushed the words out of my mouth. “My best friend. My old best friend…Petra. She was practically my sister.” I choked on the last word as my throat began to swell shut.

He turned back to me. “Where is she now?”

I shrugged, though I knew exactly where Petra was.

We painted in silence for a while. All the while, I was blinking furiously and taking slow, deep breaths to prevent my emotions from spilling over. Daniel was quiet and focused.

“Do you want to know where I live?” he said, his voice solemn.

I sighed with relief at the break in the silence. “Yes.”

We half-finished our paintings and, despite Daniel’s insistence that I needed to take mine home with me, we left it in the corner with the other discarded attempts. I waited for Daniel near the entrance as he pulled the studio director aside for a private conversation. He handed her something small, possibly money, then made his way toward me.

As soon as we were outside in the corridor, he lightly placed his hand on the small of my back to lead me to the elevator. It was a simple gesture, but it implied I was in some small way his. My inner feminist wanted to push his hand away, but my weary soul felt a kind of relief I’d never felt before.

Why did I feel so relieved? The answer was as simple as the gesture: I wasn’t alone.

“What did you give Layla?” I asked as he pressed the call button for the elevator.

He smiled. “Nothing important.”

I shook my head. “Your constant refusal to answer questions is infuriating, you know that?”

He was silent for a moment, relishing my frustration as we waited for the elevator. Finally, the doors slid open and we stepped inside. He pressed the button for the second level of the underground parking garage, where he’d parked. As soon as the doors slid shut, he turned to me, his green eyes locking on mine.

“I asked her how much an event like that birthday party would cost. She told me, and I gave her a check for that amount.” He tilted his head as he waited for my reply, but he quickly realized I was still confused. “To pay for Rebecca’s party.”

“You paid for that little girl’s party?”

He shrugged. “It was the least I could do. She didn’t have to invite us in. She did that out of the kindness of her heart. It ended up being one of the best dates I’ve ever been on. I thought it would be a nice way to thank her parents for raising a good kid.”

I stared at him for a moment, my mouth agape. Before I could stop myself, my hand reached out to touch his chest. “Are you real?” I whispered, clearly feeling the solid warmth of his body beneath his clothes.

He lay his hand over mine, not breaking eye contact as he leaned closer, until his lips brushed against mine, sending a chill cascading over my skin. Each breath he exhaled made my heart race faster. I leaned into him, pressing my lips to his as his hands came up to clasp both sides of my face. A smart move, as I began to feel unsteady on my feet.

Then, as fast as it began, it was over.

Daniel turned away to face the elevator doors, his hand finding its way to the small of my back again. “Define real,” he said as the doors slid open.