Page 29 of If You Give an Artist a Killer Muse

I’m a professional. I always know what I’m doing.

He’s so fucking clueless about the potential dangers around him it’s almost comical. Yes, I know. How ironic. I’m the irony.

I can’t help it.

As I've been covertly shadowing him like a guilty voyeur lurking in the darkness, I've realized that Nat wasn't exaggerating his good-boy tendencies.

Rurik Campbell likes to start his day every morning at 6:00 AM by going to the gym and lifting weights. As much as I hate waking up bright and early, the best good morning greetings have been seeing his broad muscles glistening with sweat.

How do I witness these moments when I’m supposed to keep my distance?

I'm the one in all black, my oversized black hoodie covering my face. I've realized that my outfit may attract more attention when other ladies come in dressed in sports bras and form-fitting leggings.

However, I can proudly note that my Rurik is quite a gentleman. His gaze never strays whenever such ladies come across him. Does that stop me from shoving them in the locker room, forcing them to wear T-shirts, or threatening to drop a barbell on them?

Of course not.

I mean, don’t get me wrong. They can wear whatever the fuck they want, as they should because women are beautiful creatures that deserve to feel comfortable in their skin. I’m all for girl power and all.

But in front of my Rurik? Fuck. No.

On Mondays, he extends his angelic nature by volunteering to teach painting at long-term care homes. It must be therapeutic for the residents, and I can see his patience shining through with everyone. Except me, of course. He snaps every time I bombard him with questions.

Such a tease.

Every other day, he works at this bougie, organic, gluten-free, everything happy-free grocery store. I don’t know why, though. Whatever helps pay his bills, I guess. Then, on Wednesdays and Thursdays, he goes to Central Park and sketches whatever he feels like. The other day, I caught him repainting this bridge. One time, I saw him sketching flowers. He sketched the same flower I had given him before.

Did my heart stutter when I saw that? I almost fainted knowing he sketched that flower because of his feelings for me.

Okay, maybe he doesn’t have feelings for me. Not the kind I want, anyway. Why would he sketch that same flower out of all the flowers scattered around the park?

Then, he works at the art gallery Oscar owns on Fridays and weekends. During that time, I actually showed myself because, hello, I love art. Oscar knows me, and I know Oscar. It's just such a fantastic bonus that Rurik is also there.

Does his jaw drop each time I walk into the gallery? Yes. I choose to believe it’s because my beauty stuns him every time he sees me.

Seriously, I go there for art. That’s it. Oscar has always been strict about the type of art he showcases in his gallery. He’s a snob that way. But it works out because I like to ogle the artwork that Oscar likes to have displayed in his gallery. This particular artwork is the most beautiful one I’ve ever seen. It’s honestly a fucking masterpiece.

The masterpiece is Rurik Campbell.

Does his face get all red every time I glue myself to his side and ask him a bunch of questions about random sculptures and his art? Again, I choose to believe it’s because I’m so damn beautiful that he can’t find the words to say what he means. So he just turns red and grumbles.

What? I'm his biggest fan. I have to ask him questions about how he does shit. I have to understand his creative process, right? But I've noticed something about Rurik—he rarely smiles or laughs.

He's always so serious.

I've only seen him smile when people compliment his work or he uses his customer service voice at the grocery store. They’re fake. Rehearsed. My angel needs to loosen up, and I'm determined to help him do just that.

I squeezed his cheeks once, and he nearly exploded.

Oscar had to intervene and send him to do inventory in the back, which unfortunately meant I couldn't see him because guests weren't allowed in the employee areas.

Fucking cock blocker, that Oscar. If he weren’t engaged to my best friend, I would have smacked him in the head. I mean, I did do that, too, but I could have made it more painful for him.

Right now, Rurik is reading a book on a shaded bench underneath a crape myrtle tree.

I really want to pop up behind his shoulder and scream, “OOGA BOOGA!” but I’m pretty sure my angel would seriously hate that. And I don’t want him to hate me, damn it.

So, I throw a rock at his head instead.

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