Her Insatiable Scot
“Tristan’s eighth museum visit in the past month and that became something he could rely on. Everyone was dishonest in their own way. Should have been a salve, but he wasn’t the kind of man to look for rationalizations.
“Take the picture.” Ian ran a hand through his hair, a clear sign of his impatience, but he continued to stand at his brother’s side.
“What?”
He stuffed his hands in the jeans and the plain white T-shirt hung loose on his lean frame. “We’ve been standing here for fifteen minutes.... This is the one. Take the picture so we can go.”
“It’s not the one.”
No high, airy ceilings in this museum. Flat best described it. Whoever designed the building believed the art and relics should matter. Basically, a dumb fuck designed the building, but at least the curator managed to work around it. They’d spread the European paintings, statues and clothing in a way that told a clear story—grief and loss during one plague or another.
Worry creased the skin around his brother’s blue eyes.MoreLess
“Take the picture.” Ian ran a hand through his hair, a clear sign of his impatience, but he continued to stand at his brother’s side.
“What?”
He stuffed his hands in the jeans and the plain white T-shirt hung loose on his lean frame. “We’ve been standing here for fifteen minutes.... This is the one. Take the picture so we can go.”
“It’s not the one.”
No high, airy ceilings in this museum. Flat best described it. Whoever designed the building believed the art and relics should matter. Basically, a dumb fuck designed the building, but at least the curator managed to work around it. They’d spread the European paintings, statues and clothing in a way that told a clear story—grief and loss during one plague or another.
Worry creased the skin around his brother’s blue eyes.MoreLess
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