Page 10 of The Muse
“You seem to think you know everything about me, Mr Foxton. I can assure you, you do not. And that review was completely imbalanced. It was disparaging, mocking, and downright rude.”
“All art is based on opinions. My opinion is mine. You can’t and won’t change it, Ms Castlewood.” I move to the door, opening it for her. “Please leave.”
She drops down onto one of the chairs without acknowledging the door at all, her legs crossing and her chin aloft. “No.” Her neck cricks sideways, swinging her blonde, pencil-straight hair about. “Not until you agree to reprint a realistic review and apologise.”
A disgruntled laugh chuckles out of me. “I’ve never apologised for a damned thing in my life, Ms Castlewood. And certainly not for my opinion. If you don’t leave, I will have no choice but to call the police. You have not been invited in.”
Silence. She’s not moving, it seems.
My hands land on my hips to keep them away from her, mind thinking of anything I’ve got to get her the hell out of here because Christ, she’s pretty. Especially with all these hard features going on, her hair down and her fine limbs draped over each other. At least I’ve got my sports pants on, which is going some way to keeping my cock in check. Try as I might to stop it, though, I’ve got all kinds of images floating around in my head. None of which are remotely decent when there’s a woman young enough to be my daughter in the room.
“What was so wrong with it?” she asks, breaking me of the imagery.
“What?”
“The performance? What was so awful that you needed to berate me so harshly?”
The directness of the question surprises me. Enough so that I have to take a minute to rally the correct words for honest criticism without my damn cock interfering. “It was immature. Not surprising given your age. You need to grow, Ms Castlewood. However, as you’ve given up on that now, it’s unlikely you’ll ever prove your worth. To me, at least.”
She frowns and looks at her fingers for a few seconds, twisting them in her grip as if she’s just been told off by her teacher. Annoyingly, it's the cutest damn thing I’ve seen in years. Which only furthers whatever the hell my cock is discussing with itself.
“Nobody else has said that,” she mutters.
“Nobody else gives a damn about perfection. I do.” A huff blows out of me, eyes casting across her saddening face as it takes in my critique. It hurts. I know it does. I remember it well. Arseholes giving their opinion, telling you you’re not good enough. Let alone the years of training and pain she must have gone through to even get a shot at the top spot. And most of what I wrote wasn’t wholly true. Not with her abilities anyway. It was based off me being in this never-ending bad mood and Landon fucking Broderick.
My hand sweeps over my forehead, pushing the temper down so I can at least get her out of here before what’s in my pants takes over all sense. “Look, Ms Castlewood. I’m not changing my review. It’s what you get when you put yourself out there. Perhaps you should just stick to reading the other sycophantic columns of drivel. You’ll feel better after that.”
Her face snaps up. “Sycophantic?”
“Yes.”
“How dare you, again? Just because they disagree with you and think I'm worthy, they’re sycophants?”
“The performance was passionless and dull. And frankly, if that's all you could muster for a finale, I'm not surprised they've thrown you out of the role.”
Her whole body launches, arms outstretched as she flies towards me. I’ve caught her wrist before she even gets close enough to try, too used to knowing the slap that can happen when you piss a woman off.
“You’re an arrogant bastard, Scott Foxton,” she shouts, struggling in my hold. "They did not throw me out!"
She twists and turns her body as if she’s still on stage, ire and temper getting her nowhere against my size. All it does is wind up parts of me I’m desperately trying to ignore, as does the feeling of her being so close. Eyes—blue. Deep blue with tiny pinpricks of a pupil. Lips—soft, blush pink. Fine hair sweeps across my skin, the slight smell of lemons coming with it, as the feel of her transfers even more imagery, even more thoughts that I should not be thinking.
I let go and back away before this turns into something it shouldn’t, pointing at the door in the same breath. “I suggest you take the opportunity to leave, Ms Castlewood. My patience is wearing thin, you’re winding me up, and rough foreplay isn’t something I mind in the slightest.”
Everything about her face, all the anger and venom morphs into surprise. It’s then that I realise what I’ve just said. Christ. Young enough to be my daughter and I’m talking dirty?
“Leave,” snarls out of me.
It’s all I’ve got. I’m not apologising for it or the review. And if she gives me any more time to not think about what I’m doing here, this is going to turn very dirty extremely quickly.
Thankfully, after a minute’s worth of those soft lips and her panting breath teasing me some more, she gathers her cardigan slowly and heads for the still open door. Not another word. No look back either.
Good.
Chapter Six
PERSEPHONE
I’ve accomplished nothing. I went to Scott Foxton’s apartment with the single intention of forcing him to change that scathing review. He knows nothing about ballet; how could he, being a journalist, yet feels he can criticise my final performance? I wasn’t having that. But the only thing I'm now left with is a guilty conscience.
