As I make my way through the hallway again, I’m tempted to veer off and sneak a peek at what’s behind the multitude of doors. I’ve always been a curious person, and when someone told me not to do something, I always ended up doing it anyway.
I don’t think of it as snooping, but learning about your surroundings can be a good thing. At least, that’s what I tell myself. I focus on the office and settle behind my new desk to work.
With a smile, I pick up the batch of pages that have been printed for me and start getting to the details, hoping that before Julian returns, I’ll have finished. That would impress him.
I don’t hear him enter the room. My focus is on the words in front of me as I circle names, add minor pricing changes, and tweak the information he has with a pencil.
When he sets down a large Starbucks mug, I practically leap into the air, sending the pencil flying. The gentle sound of it falling on the rug steals the silence for a second as our gazes lock.
“I figured you might like a coffee,” Julian tells me.
“Thank you,” I say, nodding slowly. I can’t help but notice how handsome he is, which is completely unprofessional. He bends to retrieve the pencil, setting it on the desk in front of me, and I take note of his hands. The veins protrude, and I notice the splotches of color on his fingers. “Are you hurt?” The question tumbles from me before I can take it back. And when I lift my eyes to his, he offers me a small smile.
The buttons of his shirt are open, and my eyes inadvertently drink him in. The way his collarbone moves and the way the muscles of his shoulders tense and release. Every dip and peak I can see from my viewpoint have me wanting to see more. He looks like he’s been sculpted from the finest marble.
“No, I was painting last night,” he says, shocking me. I didn’t expect him to share something about himself, and the thought of him in a studio, splashing paint across a canvas, takes hold of me.
Tipping my head to the side with interest, I ask, “You paint?”
“I thought you would’ve done your research,” Julian snips before turning to leave me in the office once more. I want nothing more than to snap at him. His cold demeanor is going to get to me. I’ve never met someone so angry all the time.
“If there was something about you online, I would’ve. But there isn’t.” My biting tone has him stalling on the threshold. He glances at me from over his shoulder, his eyes practically digging through me, trying to burrow themselves into the very heart of me.
“Is that an admission to you googling me?”
My cheeks heat at his question. I shouldn’t have said what I did, but this man truly is bringing out the brat in me. He doesn’t move, waiting for an answer I don’t want to give. But I know I’ll have to because I’ve already admitted to it.
“I needed to know the person I was coming to interview with,” I tell him, sitting back in my office chair. “And normally, it’s far more interesting than anything I found on you.”
“I like my privacy.”
“That you do because all I learned before I walked in here yesterday was that you had inherited this historical home from your father. The gallery included, and you’re one of the most brutal art critics in the world.”
That makes him smile. Even though my anger has taken hold of me, I can’t deny the man is attractive— the perfect Adonis, with the worst temperament.
“That’s all you need to know.”
Chapter 7
Julian
This is ridiculous.
She’s my employee, and yet all I can think about is bending her over that desk and showing her just how creative I can be. Her gaze heated every inch of me. I could feel her like she was practically touching me. Her gentleness, those delicate fingers, and those plump lips that shimmer with gloss had every nerve in my body alive.
Since Shay, I haven’t really looked at a woman. I haven’t even considered having someone in my house, seeing her daily, and talking to her. Opening up to someone isn’t what I do. I didn’t even do it with my wife. Why the fuck would I do it with a stranger?
This is utter fucking bullshit. I move into the studio and shut the door, hoping the loud bang will ensure she doesn’t follow, but even as I think it, the canvas she inspired glares at me, reminding me of what I felt last night.
I haven’t had a muse in so long I feel lost at the thought of actually having someone inspire my creativity. The last time I truly felt connected to someone in that way was when I was in college. A long fucking time ago.
Picking up the painting, I set it on the floor against the wall and grab a new, empty canvas, placing it on the easel. A new, blank page to tarnish with the color splatters I’ve become known for. Only, the last time someone saw any work of mine was almost ten years ago. My father made sure my art was exhibited in the gallery, and they sold like hotcakes. Each time he had an event, they would sell out, and that’s how he knew I had talent.
But with talent comes fame, and that was the last thing I wanted. I always preferred being in the dark. Hiding away from the bullshit the media would spew, I learned early on it wasn’t worth it. So, instead of taking it on the chin like celebrities usually do, I pulled back and hid.
I wanted to be different. I focused on writing reviews and put my paintbrushes away. When people started asking for my work, my father had to tell them I’d retired my career. There were rage and confusion, but after a year, they diminished and forgot about me.
I pick up the palette after squirting enough paint to start something fresh and grab my brush. Dipping it into the shimmery color, I create a circular shape on the white material. My hand continues its movement, round and around until the black is glaring at me.
When I finally come to a stop, I take a step back and tip my head to the side. Quickly, I dip the bristles into another color before continuing on the pattern of the black. The shades swirl together, creating a distinct shade that I haven’t made before. It reminds me of a dusky sky. The tones taking over as they blend and meld, and when I finally look at it again, there’s a familiar image coming to play. Black and purple, circular, like the wide eye of someone who’s captured my attention.
Setting the palette down, I sit on the stool and consider what to do next. A background, perhaps more shading on the round, eye-looking image. Or do I leave it as it is? Perfect in its simplicity.
A knock at the door bounces into the room, causing me to groan at the thought of seeing Nea again. Even though I have to admit I’d like to look at her pretty face, when I’m working, I hate being disturbed.
But she doesn’t know you’re working. The thought flits through my mind, and I have to remind myself she’s not Shay. And I certainly can’t blame her for what someone else has done.
Rising, I make my way to the door and pull it open to find a wide-eyed beauty looking up at me. I notice she’s wearing flat shoes, only because she’s even shorter than she was the day she walked in for the interview. She only comes up to my chest, and that was in heels. She’d be so easy to lift into my arms, press against the wall. What the fuck?
“What?” I ask, shaking my head to clear my wayward thoughts.