Page 16 of Taking A Chance

“What are you looking at?” I finally snap, looking up from my menu to make eye contact.

His finger traces the edge of his water glass as he leans back. “Your freckles.”

“What about them?”

“I like them,” he says. “That’s all.”

“You’re staring at me like I’m the first person you’ve ever seen with them,” I say.

“But no one’s freckles look the same. And I’m not inspired to paint just anyone’s freckles,” he says.

This must be the beginning of one of those out of body experiences, because I no longer feel the chair beneath me or the menu in my hand. I stare at him for several minutes, neither of us saying anything. Growing up, I hated my freckles. I was the redheaded, freckled girl who was too tall for her age group, all knobby knees and sharp elbows. To hear someone speak so nicely about my skin is soothing decade old wounds.

“Did you just say you’re moved to paint my freckles?” I ask, clearing my throat.

“Would that be okay with you?” he asks, lacing his fingers together in front of him.

I swallow hard against the lump in my throat and quiet the twenty questions plaguing my mind.Why mine? Paint them how? Am I going to be naked like some of the women in the other paintings?

“Um, I think that would be all right,” I say, not quite sure what I’m getting myself into.

“Can we start tonight?” he asks.

Oh my god. What have I done?

11

Declan

I slidemy key into the door and twist, pushing it open and then flipping on the living room light. I step to the side to let Cora in. From the moment she agreed, up until now, she’s asked me no less than seventeen questions and I can tell more are at the ready.

I watch her step into the space—myspace. Her footsteps are timid compared to her usual. Anytime I’ve ever seen her, aside from when she was practically assaulted in front of her apartment door, she’s always had an air of confidence. After closing the door behind me, I push my hands into my pockets and continue to watch her. She looks around, her face portraying she’s deep in thought as she studies her surroundings.

“I’m going to change,” I say, unbuttoning the cuff links at my wrist. “Make yourself comfortable.”

I leave her to go change out of my suit. Boy, Ryan would love it if I showed up to the next exhibit with paint on my suit. It’s not that I don’t have other suits, but let’s just say I’ve ruined as many as I have.

I return after making quick work of changing. The old jeans with paint splattered all over them and a white T-shirt are a stark contrast to the crisp black suit, and I read as much on Cora’s face. Her eyes trace down my body to my bare feet.

“Not even socks?” she asks, a teasing quality in her voice.

“Not if I can help it.” I shrug. Bare feet are as essential to me as the brushes when I’m painting. I can’t explain it. I just feel better when my feet can feel the floor beneath them without a barrier.

“Interesting,” she says. “Do I have to be naked?”

Her question catches me off guard and I choke a little bit on nothing at all. “Um, do you want to be naked?”

“I just noticed that most of your subjects seem to be some degree of nude,” she says.

“That’s up to them, really. I let them decide,” I say, clarifying a bit of the process. If I’m being honest, most women do want to be some level of nude. Perhaps when they run it through their minds, it’s exhilarating or feels like a once-in-a-lifetime thing, and they take full advantage.

Cora pulls her top lip between her teeth, like she’s giving this a lot of thought. “You let them have a say in how you paint them?” she asks.

“I let them get comfortable, then I observe them until I find what I want to paint,” I confess. I hook my thumb into my belt loop and notice her posture relaxes a fraction.

“May I use your bathroom?” she asks.

I point down the hall and then turn to position my stool and canvas while she’s gone. After I pour paint onto my palette, I hear her footsteps behind me a few moments later. When I turn to show her where to sit, I stop at the sight of her. Gone is Cora’s top layer of clothing, leaving behind a black lace bra and panties. But she’s still wearing my suit jacket. And, dare I say, the image of Cora wearing nothing but her underthings and my jacket, makes something low inside me do a somersault.

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