Page 8 of Taking A Chance

Declan

I tried all day.Correction. I tried and failed all day to paint the details of her face. As soon as I walked back into my loft last night, I got to work, trying to put it on the canvas as fast as I could before the memory faded. I managed to get some of it right. The shape of her face, the arch of her nose, the color of her eyes, and even a good outline of her lips.

But today, I tried remembering the placement of her many freckles. The pained look in her irises, and the exact shade of the flush in her high cheeks along with the precise way her mascara was smeared. That sounds horrible to anyone who isn’t an artist. Trying to explain how badly I want to splash someone else’s pain onto a blank canvas to beautify it is always difficult. But at our core—humans at their core—really only have one thing in common: The way they process and express those emotions. Humans from all different corners of the world, one way or another, all know love, pain, and grief.

So when my agent called me up asking about my current projects, I dished about my frustrations; and he insisted I come out and have a drink with him. Of course, one drink turned into three, and here we are. Generally, I hate places like this. He knows it, but he convinced me under the guise oflooking for a muse. Given my recent failures, I’m a desperate man, willing to try anything at this point.

Imagine my surprise when none other than the neighbor who hates me made eye contact with me from across the floor and then called me an asshole.

“Looking for your next victim?” she asks now, even after what I consider a pleasant greeting on my part.

I chuckle, shaking my head as I tip back the glass of Jameson in my hand and finish it off.

“Something like that,” I say, not wishing to reveal too much about myself to her.

She’s got her own perceptions, and I’ll let her wallow in them if she desires to be so presumptuous. A noise escapes her throat that sounds half-groan, half-huff.

“Who’s this lovely little slice of carrot cake?” my agent—and admittedly my best friend—says. He runs his eyes up and down the length of Cora’s body and licks his bottom lip.

Unfortunately, this is very typical of Ryan. I’ve been his best friend since college, and he was just as terrifyingly idiotic toward women then as he is now. I roll my eyes, scoffing at his attempt to get her attention.

Cora peels her eyes from me, smirking at my reaction to him. She holds her hand out to Ryan to introduce herself.

“I’m Cora, Declan’s neighbor, and thereby a witness to his many indiscretions,” she says.

“Indiscretions?” Ryan asks, beginning to laugh.

“Yeah, yeah,” I say. “This one has some strong opinions about me and how I live my life.”

Ryan looks from her face to mine and back again, clearly confused. He knows as well as I do that I haven’t slept with anyone in so many months it’s almost laughable.

Cora snaps her head back toward me, narrowing her eyes.

Sensing the tension, Ryan attempts to break it. “How ‘bout we get some shots?” His suggestion draws Cora’s attention back.

“Yeah, sure,” she says, surprising both me and Ryan by the looks of it.

He flags down the bartender and orders three shots of Patron, because apparently, he wants us to get wasted. That on top of what we’ve already had will be enough to do me in for the night.

When the shots come, Ryan raises his high into the air. “A toast! To new friends,” he says, eyeing Cora. “And to the old ones that drive me nuts.” He clinks his shot glass against mine as he says this last bit.

Before I can shoot mine back, my gaze snags on Cora as she takes hers, quickly and efficiently. Her body shakes as she swallows, and I study the heaving of her chest as a result. I shoot mine back then, licking at my bottom lip, eyes still on Cora’s profile as she drowns in cheap conversation with Ryan.Who the fuck calls a woman carrot cake? Ugh.

“Let’s dance!” Ryan shouts, seemingly invigorated with a new surge of energy.

He’s such a jackass.

“No, thanks. I’ll pass,” I say, holding up my hand.

Cora gives me another look; and if I’ve observed anything, it’s that she really likes giving me dirty looks.

“Well, I’ll dance,” she says, taking Ryan by the hand.Of course she would.

Ryan hops off his stool and tugs her toward him, his intentions written all over his face. I tip my drink toward both of them and they turn, stepping toward the dance floor. It’s no surprise he’s got his sights set on her. For as long as I’ve known him, redheads have been his thing. And let’s be clear: I’m not an idiot.

Cora, in all her anger and angst, is an attractive woman. Anyone can see it. I can even look past my particular way of seeing beauty in everyone as an artist and know I could be attracted to her, under different circumstances. You know, like if she were fucking nice or didn’t have this prejudice against me. As it is, that’s not our path. Not this time around.

I turn, watching Ryan and Cora dance, which consists mostly of Ryan attempting to fondle any part of her he can get his hands on. Or rather, any part she allows. I can appreciate that about her. She seems headstrong, certainly doesn’t bite her tongue. She’s strong-willed. Sometimes, I think the world needs more of that. More people who know what they want and don’t accept less. I’ve observed Cora enough over the years to know that much about her.

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