"And that is why Empress Wu commissioned this very portrait to commemorate…"

The curator's monotonous voice snaked around Annabeth's head, dipping lazily into one ear and out the other. She smiled, dreamily, and admired the tapestry, appreciating the fine silk detailing.

The group moved on, but Annabeth remained towards the back, admiring vase after vase as she moved past them, noticing the fine cerulean detailing painted on every milky porcelain surface. She sighed, touching her fingertips to the cold glass of the exhibit as she moved on.

It was her favorite Sunday activity—going to the Museum of Fine Arts. It always had been, at least for the last five or so years that she had lived in Boston. There was always so much to see and so little time to see it. One could get lost for hours.

She lived a relatively stable, boring life. Her work as a paralegal failed to excite her, the views from her tiny loft in Brighton rarely impressed her, and, sadly, her love life had flat lined too long ago for her to pinpoint an exact date. Her build was average—though perhaps a little too tall and a little too spindly for most. Her blonde curls were often a tangled, wild mess.

Annabeth looked forward to Sundays, and could practically recite the tour guide's spiel from memory. She had already picked her favorites—a marble bust from the Roman period here, a set of medieval silverware there—and appreciated all the rest. She practically got high from that musty smell of the Egyptian wing.

She continued on the tour—admiring the various persons in her group. The crotchety old tour guide, of course, with the coke bottle glasses, tweed coat, and liver spots atop his bald pate. Also present: the group of tourists—fanny packs included—with their disposable cameras and brightly colored clothing. The intellectual family that believed themselves superior by spending their free time at the MFA, when really they were, with all the power their "superior" minds could bear, willing the tour to be over. And then, of course, there was the young couple that seemed to appear everywhere, always locked in a passionate embrace. It was as if they existed for the sole reason of making others feel old and alone. Well, it was working.

Annabeth sighed, stopping in front of her favorite Monet as the group moved onward. She could stare at it for hours, admiring the blurs and blots of colors, and how they could just as easily be a cluster of flowers, or a boat floating in a pond, as they could be a mess of paint slapped on a canvas.

The room was packed, with everyone straining their necks to get a glimpse of the impressionist' work. Annabeth rolled her stormy eyes as she remembered it was vacation week. She almost regretted coming, since the crowds were so bad. Almost.

Just as she was about to give up and head to the T stop to catch it before rush hour, she was shoved violently from behind, and her legs seemed to fly out from beneath her. Her face came inches away from hitting the canvas and tripping the sensors. She gasped, feeling the strong grip that had saved her ass from expulsion from the museum.

"So sorry about that." The deep voice said, almost apologetically. Almost.

"What the hell was—" She seethed as she whirled around to face him. Instantly, her words became stuck in her throat, and she was unable to do anything other than squeak.

The stranger's jet-black hair was swept back from his face in a neat coif, and his defined jaw was free of stubble. A long, elegant roman nose adorned his face—much like the marble busts—and his tan, especially for late February, was drool inducing. His black suit was free of creases and wrinkles, his shoes were freshly shined, and his briefcase looked to be made of the finest black leather. What shocked Annabeth most, though, were those eyes. Man, those oceanic emeralds, just sitting there, full of fire and light, hell and heaven. Temptation and sin.

"Look, I—" He began, darting those magnificent eyes to the side for a moment. Whatever he saw over her shoulder was enough to make his pupils to constrict and his spine stiffen. Just as Annabeth turned her head slightly to take a look, he forcefully turned her head back, cupping her chin and pulling her face towards his. He kissed her—a passionate, warm embrace—for several moments as rapid footsteps pounded past them. He broke away, studying her face. Now he smirked at her, that playful light rising to his eyes once more, and he turned away, looking over his shoulder only once before disappearing into the crowd. Dumbfounded, she remained.

Museum security guards—in their maroon blazers—darted past her, muttering into their radios and cursing under their breath. Even through the jittering crowd, she could make out the words "thief" and "missing". Annabeth's eyebrow's knit together, and, her mind running every scenario possible, she turned away, shaking her head slowly. Finally, her life had received the burst of color it had always needed. Now—and this was the true problem—she just had to figure out what to make of it.