Page 75 of My Sweetest Agony
Holding my breath, I inch toward the opening and peek inside.
Camden stands with his back to me, halfway across a vast loft space—shirtless, barefoot, his dark jeans hanging low on his hips as he stares down at something on the floor in front of him.
His shoulders and body are rigid as he tilts his head.
All the air rushes from my lungs at seeing him so tense, so intent on whatever his task may be.
Oh, God…
Whatever he’s doing here, I shouldn’t be interrupting him.
This was a bad idea.
I drag my gaze off him to turn back to the stairs, but a canvas against the wall near him makes me pause, then step forward instead of retreating. Even from here, it’s breathtaking.
I’m drawn in by the soul-deep need to see more, to experience the type of beauty he’s put on that canvas.
Cautiously, I turn sideways so I can slip in between the doors. And my eyes immediately scan the vast room, my jaw dropping as I take in everything.
Hundreds of paintings lean in stacks along the walls—in some places five or six deep.
All in black and white and varying shades of gray.
Landscapes.
Portraits.
Abstract images.
Statements about life, about the world, about people and the emotions they never want to talk about.
All of it laid out on these canvases with such precision and talent.
The sheer beauty and artistry covering almost every inch of the brick walls make my knees tremble as I move deeper into what is obviously Cam’s studio.
With the loud music filling the air and his attention focused on whatever lies on the painter’s tarps at his feet, Camden doesn’t notice my approach.
But my gaze shifts from the works along the walls to the man responsible for them.
He squats and dips the brush into a tray of black paint on the floor, then leans over and drags it across a massive blank canvas in front of him. His muscular shoulders and back bunch and roll with every precise stroke, and he doesn’t take any time before he is pressing the bristles down again and again. He grasps another brush from a tray of white paint, moving it with determined slashes. Like he knows precisely what it should be and where each drop of pigment should go in order to create the image in his head.
The movements become more harsh, matching the beat of the music.
Almost aggressive.
He streaks black paint across the canvas with such determined focus and power that a shudder rolls through me as heat fills my cheeks.
I shouldn’t be watching this.
This is his work.
This is his space.
His release.
And I’ve just invaded it, uninvited.
What we need to discuss can wait.
