Dragged along to a furniture showing by your friend Stanford, you lose him in the crowd.

You walk around, deciding to look at some of the works. You stop to look at a mahogany coffee table, running your fingers over the grain, when you feel someone behind you.

“You’ve got a good eye,” turning around, you look up to see a handsome guy with blue eyes and shaggy hair, an easy smile on his face that matches his relaxed clothing. “But I’m probably biased, since I’m the artist.”