Page 52 of Proposal Play

My throat tightens with emotion. He deserves so much better than someone like me. I’m a soda bottle shook up. A frothy drink spilling over. I reach for his arm and whisper in a choked voice, “You’re the best.”

For a second, he looks like he wants to kiss my forehead. And for a second, I linger on how much I’d like that—a soft, reassuring kiss that I could melt into.

That’s new—this longing.

But maybe not so new, given last night? And the way I rode him like I was test-driving a new vibe that does zero-to-Oin thirty seconds.

As Asher disappears into the arriving partygoers, I set up and get to work.

19

MY WIFE

Maeve

Soon, the living room fills with art world types. Women in avant-garde jumpsuits and short dresses that look like they’ve stepped straight out of a runway show. Men in colorful pants and tight shirts. I try to capture scene after scene with my brush.

I paint Mr. Vincenzo as he sails through the house, interacting with his guests with some sort of Dachshund-Chihuahua mix tucked into the crook of his arm. He’s a short, stout man with thick glasses and a dapper polka-dot suit. I paint him, too, when he asks me if I’d beso kind as to please make sure to get DaVinci—the dog—in some of the scenes.

“I never skimp on dogs,” I say, then he smiles and weaves back into the crowd, stroking the dog’s long ears as he goes. I paint gallery owners who exude an air of refined taste. I paint artists who stand out with their eccentricstyles. I paint models who move gracefully through the room.

I don’t stop even when a tall, wiry man with high cheekbones and toned arms in a tight shirt strides right over to me. No idea who he is, but hisje ne sais quoimakes me think he’s a model.

“Mabel Hart?” he asks when he arrives by my side. He’s British, posh, and very imperfectly interesting-looking in the way models are today.

“Maeve Hartley,” I correct with a smile as I keep painting. It’s hard to keep track of names, so I don’t take it personally.

“My apologies. You do the geometric shapes art, if memory serves? They’re so lovely.” His tone is a little slurry like he’s had one too many pints. “So insightful. So bright.”

I don’t do geometrics at all, but I say kindly, “Actually, I’m more of a stylized realist, but I like to play with light and shadow.”

“Yes, that’s exactly what I was thinking,” he says, his voice smooth as he moves right next to me, maybe an inch away. “I met you at a fashion show one night, didn’t I? I believe it was for Isla Beaumont’s collection. You were doing these brilliant paintings then too.”

Well, Iwasthere, but I was hired to cater, thanks to Aunt Vivian, not to paint. “She’s a wonderful designer. I’m sure you wore her clothes well.”

He brings a hand to his heart. “Oh, thanks, love. I’m so flattered you remember me. I’m Nigel,” he says, dropping his voice and glancing around as if making sure no one can hear him.

Thanks, love?My, my, aren’t we friendly. “Nice to meetyou, Nigel,” I say politely as I dip my brush into the palette and, well, carry on.

“And yeah, it was so great to wear Beaumont’s designs. She has some very sexy clothes, don’t you think?”

I don’t actually know much about her style because I was too busy serving food, but that’s neither here nor there. “Yes, she does,” I say.

He leans closer, watching me work. It’s not the first time someone has watched me closely when I’ve been party-painting. It is a sort of a party trick, after all. But it’s the first time someone has gotten so up close and personal. Too personal—the fit of his pants makes me feel like I know him in the biblical sense. “Mmm, yes, that’s so wonderful,” he says, staring at my canvas.

Or perhaps…my chest.

I try to ignore how near he is. I try to ignore the liquor on his breath as I paint a stocky young man chatting amiably with a gray-haired, strong-nosed woman. I catch sight of Asher heading toward the conversationalist a few feet from me, the first time I’ve spotted him all night.

Maybe Asher will talk to the man and woman, and I can paint him too. I don’t know if I’ve ever painted Asher. I think I want to.A lot. As I imagine the colors I’d use for his light brown hair, a rush of warmth slides down my spine.

Then, Nigel places a hand on my shoulder.

What the…?

It’s clammy, and my skin turns cold from the unwelcome touch. Keeping my focus on the canvas, I try to subtly wriggle away from his spindly fingers.

“You have such a knack for this,” he says as his hand curves over my shoulder. “It’s like you were born to do it.” His voice dips into something that he must think is sensualas he keeps his hand on me, his fingers now stroking my skin. My gut churns, but I try again to shake him off without breaking my focus on the party. I have a job to do, after all.

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