My eyes roam over the profile and the name Pinkie Leroo.
Pinkie Leroo. I frown. What kind of name is that?
I read her ad.
Name
Pinkie Leroo
Height
On point
Weight
Pretty face
Appearance
Below average
Hobbies
Playing with my twelve cats
Favorite pastime
Washing my hair
Profession
Taxidermies
Hair color
Pink – notice my name
(insert eye roll)
Eyes
Star struck
Skin
Pasty white
Below-average appearance . . . who says that?
Taxidermies . . . She stuffs dead animals for a living? Who is this freak? I’ve officially heard it all.
I can’t believe that people actually find dates on this website . . . How?
I get a vision of a pasty-white, pink-haired woman sitting on a couch with twelve cats, surrounded by stuffed animal corpses, and I cringe.
Good grief.
I read on.
I’m looking for someone who is only one color, but not one size. Stuck at the bottom, yet easily flies. Present in sun, but not in rain.
Doing no harm, but feeling no pain.
Oh please. I roll my eyes.
I screenshot a picture of the profile that has been stolen from me and I send it to myself to deal with later.
It’s late, after dinner and drinks with the boys, and I’m back in my apartment, unwinding. The moonlight streams through the window and I sip my Scotch and sit back in my armchair.
I stare at the colors, the way they fade into the darkness. The beams of light that filter down from the heavens.
I do this often, sit here late at night and inhale the beauty of the painting on my wall.
I read the title:
Fated
What was she thinking about when she painted this?
A possession, a situation. What was fated?
A person?
I lift the glass to my lips and feel the heat as the amber fluid slides down my throat.
Harriet Boucher . . . the woman I am enamored with, a woman I don’t even know. As strange as it sounds, I feel like I do know her.
There’s an honesty to the brushstrokes, a deeper connection to her emotion, something I don’t feel from other paintings. It’s the weirdest thing and something that I can’t quite explain.
Looking at Harriet’s paintings is like looking into her soul.
Breathtaking.
I smile as I imagine the older woman; I know she’s beautiful, perhaps not physically any longer, but definitely spiritually . . . emotionally.
She’s French from what I’ve heard and only recently came onto the scene. Harriet Boucher is an artist that I follow, I’ve got all of her paintings apart from three. There are only thirty in circulation, she’s a recluse and nobody knows who she is—there are only whispers.
I only have interest in the finest, most unique pieces of art. I’ve spent millions of dollars and my collection is one of the best in the world.
But Harriet is the queen; she’s the one whose work I chase.
I visualize her in a quaint French country town, painting outdoors on an easel. I wonder how many years ago she painted this and at what stage in her life she was at?
Was she young or old, in love?
And who was fated, the love of her life . . . and their child?
I exhale heavily as I stare at my beloved painting. I’m going to look deeper into this, I have this need to know who she is.
I own twenty-seven of her paintings, have spent a fortune, and yet the hunger to meet her still eats at me.
Why . . . I don’t know.
What I do know is that I don’t want to be thinking about Kathryn Landon, I need a distraction.
I’m going to make some calls on Monday to try and find out more.
I have to, it isn’t even a choice anymore. I need to know the person who affects me so deeply . . . if only just to tell her so.
I open my phone and am reminded of the fake profile on that cheap and nasty dating app.
It’s misleading, I have to get it taken down. I go to search on the app and it won’t let me past the front page unless I join and make a profile.
I roll my eyes in disgust. Fuck’s sake . . . what is this shit?
I lean on my hand as I watch the red skirt twirl, the way her hips move, the long legs, the sexuality of the whole package . . . I’ve replayed this security footage more than I care to admit, maybe on the hour. I can’t stop watching it, again and again.
It’s a guilty pleasure, the ultimate kink in porn.
Although I would like to, I can’t deny it, Kathryn Landon turns me on.
A knock sounds at my door and I quickly minimize the screen. “Yes,” I call.
Christopher puts his head around the door. “I’m going downstairs, want to come for a walk?”
“Where to?”
“IT.”
My eyebrows rise. “IT?”
“Yeah, I have to check a few details with Kathryn on that report.”
I’m standing before I have time to answer.
“You’re coming?” he asks in surprise.
“Yeah, why not? I need to stretch my legs.”
We take the elevator and two minutes later we arrive on level ten, the IT floor. There are workstations throughout and at the back are six offices with glass walls as partitions, slimline black venetian blinds offering privacy to each office.
I follow Christopher down the corridor as people dive for their desks and pretend to work. I never come to this floor. Never needed to; not exactly sure why I’m here now.
Christopher stops to talk to someone and I continue on, get to the first glass door and read the sign:
Kathryn Landon
Hmm, even reading her name leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. “Knock, knock.”
“Come in.”
I open the door. “Hello.”
Kathryn looks up from her computer as if surprised. “Hello Mr. Miles, and to what do I owe this honor?”
I press my lips together so I don’t say something snarky; this woman brings out the smart-ass in me tenfold. “Just doing a tour, thought I’d pop in.”
She fakes a smile. “How lovely, the king has come to visit his faithful servants.”
I glare at her as I clench my jaw.
How can someone who when she dances is so happy and joyful, not to mention insanely hot . . . be filled with pure venom?
I walk in and close the door behind me, take a seat at her desk and link my hands in front of me.
She stares at me as she waits for me to speak . . . I don’t, we remain silent.
“Well?” She smiles.
I narrow my eyes as I stare at her; what is it with this fucking woman?
Nobody treats me the way she does, my mere existence pisses her off.
She smiles as if she’s happy, but what comes out of her mouth is always low-key aggressive. She’s the ultimate temper bait.
“Well what?” I reply.
“Are you going to talk to me on your visit?”
I dust my jacket off as I try to think of something to say. “How do you like working here?” I ask.
She rolls her eyes. “Are you going to try and pay me off to resign again?”
I wince. I did do that . . . didn’t I?