Page 25 of Taking A Chance

“Fine. I promise,” I say.

He swirls his brush on his palette and lifts it to the piece again. “I just think you’re really beautiful and strong and I don’t understand anyone who wouldn’t want that.”

Oh. My.I swallow hard, making every attempt to calm my emotions.Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry.And fair warning, that’s the sort of thing that will definitely make me cry.

Hell, that’s the kind of thing that lands me smack in the middle of trouble.

16

Declan

Cora is short of words,her eyes glossy and full of some emotion she seems to be trying to hide. She doesn’t respond to me immediately. Instead, she inhales deeply a few times.

“Thank you,” she says, her throat tight.

Her response makes me think not many people say such things to her. Maybe I’ve caught her off guard. Maybe she wants desperately to believe me but her past doesn’t help with that. Either way, it’s clear the sentiment is rare.

I shrug my shoulders, not wanting to make a big deal out of the moment. “It’s nothing.”

“When did you start painting?” she asks, sounding genuinely curious.

“I think I’ve been making some kind of art since I was little, but this particular medium and my concentration on it took hold around fifteen. Of course, I was terrible then.” I chuckle.

“Did you go on to study it in college?” she asks.

“Not at first. I went into business management then changed my major,” I say.

She nods, taking this information in and processing it.

We fall into silence again like we have many times, and I concentrate on the freckle pattern peppering her shoulder. The artistry is in the details, those subtle nuances that can make or break a painting. Of course, not all paintings call for it. But my particular style, my relentless need to paint a certain level of realism, demands it.

Why did I choose this style? No idea. I think I just believed if I was going to paint someone on canvas, it needed to feel likethemas much as possible. Now, it’s sort of become a strange addiction. I’ve never gone more than forty-eight hours without painting something. Crazy, right? Needless to say, I don’t take many vacations. It might also be why I can’t keep a girlfriend.

I make a final stroke across the jawline on the canvas and stop, standing back to take in the whole picture. My shoulders slump and it’s almost as if when I finish a painting, I uncoil just a bit.

“It’s done,” I say. “I’m finished.”

Cora finally moves, standing and pulling the jacket closed around her. She steps gingerly toward me and the canvas, then around to my side.

I turn, now interested more in her reaction to the painting, than the painting itself. Her eyes grow wide as her mouth drops open. They’re growing glossy again as she blinks back her emotions.

“It’s beautiful,” she whispers.

“My paintings are only as beautiful as the people in them.” I genuinely mean that. It’s true. I think all people are beautiful in their own ways and I’m drawn to their humanity first. But I can’t deny that painting a truly beautiful woman is a treat. That sounds bad in my head.Don’t say that out loud, man.I guess what I mean is it’s always a privilege to paint someone I could be attracted to. You know, if I weren’t trying to be professional. Or if that woman wasn’t kind of mean. Like Cora.

“Thank you,” she says. “Thank you for doing this. And I’m sorry I’m such a bitch.”

“Well, love, if you weren’t such a bitch, things might not have turned out like this.” As soon as I say the words, I regret them. They sound like they’re implying something. Maybe they are. Maybe if she hadn’t been presumptuous all that time ago, I would’ve hit on her rather than asked to paint her. Or maybe it would’ve been both. Who knows, really.

Cora turns to me, holding her chin up and looking me straight in the eyes. She doesn’t say anything right away, just holds my gaze. For how long, I can’t be sure. Maybe only a few seconds, maybe full minutes.

I study the silver flecks in her irises, the way they catch the light even in this dim room. It takes all my strength not to want to pick up a pencil and catalog them. I settle on standing here, unmoving, wondering if they resemble confetti falling mid-air.

“I should get dressed,” she says, breaking the tension.

It was tension, right? I’m not that out of practice, am I?

“Yeah, of course,” I say, pointing back toward the bathroom.

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