Page 56 of Painting Celia

“I was thinking about yellow. I mean, a yellow painting. Another one. Of you.”

“Oh. You mean, right after this one?”

He scuffed a shoe, shifting his weight against the shelves. Celia’s shoulders were drooping already.

“The exhibition is not many weeks away,” he said, “and I need more good paintings by then. If I’m already thinking of another, I could do a series. If you’ll pose.”

That amber vision from last night, her close-up capitulation…that memory would stay vivid, waiting as he worked through this blue inspiration.

He crossed his arms. “Is that okay with you? Would you help me until then, and we concentrate on lessons after?”

She nodded slowly, her mouth turning down. “I can wait, I guess. If you need my help.”

Well, he really owed her now. Face lowered, he smiled ruefully up at her. “I better create something good.”

“You’re determined. You work hard. You’ll do it.” She looked again at the unfinished painting, face wistful. “Maybe I can learn by being a part of the process.”

He finally took a drink, relief welling up in him. Space, time, and inspiration! He’d been so worried a key piece wouldn’t show up.

“You’re integral to this,” he said. “You inspired the story, then posed.” He looked down and chuckled. “Andrew kept telling me how well you sat. He was right. I’ll have to name the series after you if that’s okay.”

She inhaled and looked away, trying to go pokerfaced but cheeks flushing.

“Celia,” he said, warningly but with a smile in his voice.

She looked back at him. “Fine,” she conceded, lips curving up. “I feel happy about that. Flattered.”

She may be turning pink, but her shoulders weren’t tensing like they usually did. She was getting better at admitting to feelings, or at least more comfortable around him. She leaned forward, face turned up to him, the light tank top gapping away from her tanned skin. She was playing with that necklace Kelsey had given her, her voice soft. He raised a hand to scratch an itch on his own neck.

“What?” she asked.

He blinked. “What do you mean, what?”

“Why are you glaring at me like that? What did I do?”

He ran his hand through his hair. He’d stopped listening to her at some point, lost in his own thoughts.

“I’m not being present. Give me a second to think.” Okay, he was looking at her. For painting! She was getting under his skin, and he didn’t like how it made him act. He just wanted so badly to paint her. He was starting to get pushy. Andrew had known, had asked him to be nice to her.

But how could he keep her posing until he’d painted her enough? And how long until it was enough? The yellow painting wouldn’t be the last in his head. How could he keep himself from creating around her, turning her until he found all her parts, drew every movement and feeling—

He realized she was still waiting, those damn eyes watching him, brows furrowed. Why did she always look so worried? He was the one under pressure here. He had to think.

“León—”

“Just…wait.” He held out a hand to stop her, and stop her it did.

She stood up. “Take all the time you need. I’m going.”

“Going! Why?”

Her eyes snapped. “You’re not in charge of every conversation we have, you know! You beg me to sit for you, apologize, and then scowl at me the whole morning. You bark at me to say what I feel, then tell me to stop talking. It’s rude!”

What? “You asked me—”

“Oh my god, stop talking! You may be an artist, but you’re not better than me. You still have to treat people with respect. Maybe I don’t know how to talk about my feelings as well as you do, but I’m not stupid!”

“I know that!” he shot back. “You just always look like you’re afraid of what I’m going to ask, and it’s irritating!”

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