Page 54 of Brazen Deceits

I crane my head to look at him, but all I get is his profile, his attention on the clerk. My fingers beat a rhythm on my leg once, before I once again remember that I’m not me, not really. Spinning out of Walker’s arm, I slowly turn to the beat of the lobby music. I feel Walker’s eyes on me, but I pretend I don’t, waiting until he finishes all the business stuff with the attendant. Key card in hand, he directs a valet to pile all our things onto a cart, then takes my hand, halting my solo dance party.

I think I’m going to love being Walker’s muse.

We follow the valet into the elevator, inching up to the twelfth floor, his hand warm in mine. I grin at him, and he shakes his head, trying to hold on to his rich-kid attitude, his lips pressed tight against his smile.

We make it to the room, the valet handed a wad of cash before the door clicks shut behind him. Walker scoops me up and tosses me onto the giant king-sized bed before yanking off his coat and diving next to me.

Rolling quickly, I get out of his way as he bounces on the spot I just vacated. “Clara, what was all that?” he asks, turning onto his side, one hand resting on my hip, like it belongs there, like it was never gone.

“I was being your muse,” I say. “What about pretending to be Trips? What was that?”

Walker laughs. “You caught that?”

I poke his shin with my boot. “Of course.”

He rolls onto his back, his hand slipping from my hip, settling onto his stomach, leaving not one inch of us touching. Again. He unzips his boots before kicking them off. “How many middle-class kids end up as art majors, do you think? Let alone the pretentious kind?”

“I’ve never really thought about it.”

He curls onto his side, at least facing me. “Pretty much none. Either you’re rich enough that you know Daddy will support you until you land on your feet or join the family business, or you’re too poor and too hopeful to realize the odds of making it in the fine arts. And the poor hopeful wouldn’t have booked this hotel.”

Thinking about that, I take in the room. It’s big, with one gigantic king-sized bed, jewel-toned walls, and a teal patterned carpet. It somehow looks expensive instead of chaotic, and I kind of love it. I roll off the bed, intent on checking out the bathroom. “Did you book it? It matches our artsy-fartsy aesthetic.”

The bathroom is marble—real marble, with a separate shower and tub. I back out, afraid of breaking something.

Once out, I realize there’s more to the room around the corner from the bathroom, finding a kitchenette and sitting area/office looking out over the city. “Holy shit.”

“Do you like it?” Walker asks, moving past me to sprawl on the black patterned loveseat.

“I feel, I don’t know, outclassed? Can you feel outclassed by a hotel room?”

Walker pats the seat next to him, so I curl up there, my feet tucked under me. He crosses his ankle over his knee, the tight black pants straining over his thighs. Mmm. “I understandthe feeling. The first few times I traveled on Trips’ dime? I felt like, I don’t know, Cinderella or something.”

“And now?”

“Now it just seems normal.”

I peer out the window, skyscrapers blocking most of my view of Lake Michigan, but it’s there, glinting in the distance. “So Trips got us the hotel?”

“Yeah. He does all the travel planning, so it’s always nice, even when we’re in the Podunk middle of nowhere.”

I lean over the back of the loveseat, trying to get a better view of the lake, gray in the late afternoon light. “So what now?”

Walker stands up, tugging at his too tight jeans, trying to get them where he wants them, before looking out the window with me. “I guess we get dinner and plan which museums we’ll hit tomorrow. I figured three or four tomorrow, and two or three on Sunday. When do you need to be back on Monday?”

“I have business law in the morning.”

“Right, with Trips.” Walker moves into the kitchenette, his back to me as he pulls down a glass and fills it with water.

The burgeoning closeness snaps shut, and I trail him, trying to force open the gap the muse left open, my palm hovering over his elbow. But he’s stiff, closed off. I scramble, tucking my hand into my green skirt, not sure how to get us back on track. “Walker, are we going to be able to pull this off?”

“This weekend? Or the Thanksgiving tryout? Or the actual Rubensheist?”

I run a finger along the edge of the counter, not looking at him, terrified I’ll see nothing but indifference in his gaze. “All of them, I guess. But mostly, this—you and me, this weekend.”

He sets his glass in the sink, turning toward the sleeping area. Leaving me. “I don’t see why not.”

He doesn’t tease, or touch, or smile.

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