As a fiancé, he’d hit rock bottom. Even surrounded by a cherry wood Federalist desk, an early eighteenth-century standing globe, and a Tiffany lamp, the man had no class. “You’re saying I can’t?” Vena stilled against the adrenaline rush that preceded an angry retort. Lips pressed tight, she gripped the supple back of a century-old, leather wingback chair. “Really, Vena?” Nick swung an arm, barely missing the leaded glass shade. “Actors in a museum?” Why not? Her thoughts went to the storyboard she’d struggled over for the past three nights. Covering her dining table, the board held only sketches of the Los Angeles Frontier Museum’s permanent exhibits. Every time she sat at her glass-and-chrome table to develop the details, her creativity evaporated. She refocused on the man seated behind the spotless desk. “Exactly. People interacting with the artifacts to demonstrate how they were used.”
