Page 36 of Mid-Thirties Slightly Hot Mess Female Seeking Billionaire

"I don’t think you’re an idiot." He shakes his head. "Would I have hired an idiot to write a jingle for me?"

"I don’t know. Maybe if it was a jingle for idiots."

"It’s not," he says as he jumps up from his seat on the couch and heads toward me. He leans down, grabs my hand, and pulls me out of the chair. "Come on, I want to show you something."

"Oh?" I stand up. What does he want to show me? Has he forgiven me? Does he believe me? The story was true, but I know how unbelievable it sounds. I hope he’s not taking me to his office for us to reread the ad as some sort of learning experience. That would be so demeaning. This entire conversation makes me feel like a little kid explaining why they painted on the wall by mistake or something.

"I want to show you my art studio," he says as he heads down the hall. There’s an uncertain look on his face, as though he’s not sure if he wants to show it to me or not.

"Your art studio?" I ask him, surprised. He’s an artist? Is he going to ask me to pose for him? Or is his art studio really a dungeon? Is this the kinky part? Would I care? A certain part of me would quite like for him to have his wicked way with me. I must be crazy. Or just sex-starved. Or just really into him,

"Yes." He nods. "Come and see."

He takes me down a long hallway, and then we walk into a room. He turns on the light, and I’m surprised as I see several easels with canvases, some half-painted, some completed. I look around at the walls that are full of different oil paintings. I feel like I’m at the Louvre.

"Did you paint all these?" I ask in astonishment. There’s no way, is there? If he did paint these, he’s super-talented. How has no one at Rosser International talked about his artistic talent?

"I did. I hope you like them." He smiles modestly. "I like to paint to relieve stress."

"You’re really good. Wow."

I walk up to a painting of Central Park at night. There’s a couple sitting on a bench, looking like they’re in a very intense conversation. The faces of the couple look so realistic. A discarded bouquet of flowers on the bench is falling to the ground, and the petals look so real.

"You’re really talented," I say, unable to think of anything else that can express how blown away I feel by seeing these paintings.

"I’m okay." He shrugs and grabs my elbow. "I brought you in here to show you that this is my safe space. This is where I come when I’m stressed or need to think." He turns to me and smiles. "And sometimes I get drunk in here."

"Okay." I have no idea why he’s telling me this. His painting to relieve stress has nothing to do with me going to bars and doing idiotic things with my friends.

"Sometimes, when I paint and I drink, I do stupid stuff," he says, laughing, obviously thinking about one of those instances. "I’m going to show you something."

"Okay." My eyes follow him as he walks over to a stack of canvases that are leaning against the wall. He sorts through them carefully and then picks one out of the pile. He heads back over to me and holds it up to show it to me. My jaw drops and my eyes go wide as I see the painting.

I’m pretty sure it’s a self-portrait of him in the nude.

"Um…" I swallow hard, trying to keep my eyes off of his engorged penis, but I’m finding it very hard to look away. Very hard, indeed.Stop blushing, Sarah.

"I did this one night a couple of months ago." He chuckles as my eyes go wider and wider. Is he really that big? Should I be staring so hard at his cock? Granted, it’s a painting, but it seems so real.

"It looks very real." I nod. "The reason you’re showing me this is because, what?"

"Because I don’t do nudes, and I certainly don’t do nudes of myself." He laughs, staring at the painting critically. "But one night, I stripped off my clothes, and I took a photo, I printed it out, and I painted myself naked. This is not the sort of painting I ever do or want to do, and you’re the only person, I think, in my life I will ever show this to." His eyes take me in, and a feeling passes between us. I don’t even know what it is. An understanding. A mutual respect. A trust. Something unique, and I can feel my entire body warming in happiness.

At this moment, a certain amount of pleasure and pride passes through me. I don’t know why he’s showing me his art or if that means he trusts me, but I like that we have shared this moment. I like that he’s sharing something he’s never shared with anyone else. It makes me feel special. It makes me feel that we have a bond, even though I know that we don’t. I realize that a part of the reason he’s let his guard down is so that I don’t feel so badly about what happened. I find that touching. It shows that he’s compassionate toward others, including me. It makes me feel differently about him, as well. Does that mean that I am now also drinking the Kool-Aid?

"It’s really good. I see nudes… I mean, paintings of nude models all the time at museums. I’m not an art nerd or historian or anything, but I love spending a lazy afternoon walking around a museum and then going to the cafe for some tea or coffee and buying souvenirs," I admit with a blush.

"But do you really see nudes that artists have painted of themselves?"

"No, I guess not. That’s very true." I laugh at his self-satisfied smirk. "You have me there."

"Anyway, my point is that I understand what it is to want to let out steam and end up doing things that are stupid and not really processing what you’re doing. But," he says as he puts the painting back down, "you’re going to have to make sure this doesn’t happen again, Sarah. You cannot post personal ads to the company intranet again, drunken night out or not. You do realize I’m going to have to have HR send out a memo to all employees. And while we won’t name you, it will be pretty obvious to anyone who has seen the memo, what you’ve done."

"I understand," I say, gulping. I wonder if Dave or Ginger saw the memo. I’m pretty sure they didn’t because I haven’t heard from either of them this morning. They are such gossips that I know I would have woken up to a plethora of texts and calls from them if they had seen or heard anything.

"But here’s one thing, and that should make you happy."

"Yeah?" I ask, looking down at the ground, feeling very embarrassed. Nothing about this situation is making me happy, besides seeing a painting of a naked Ethan. That had been pretty tantalizing and satisfying. I wonder if it’s true to life.

---