Page 20 of Paint Me Love
“It’s not ready yet.”
Even better. I’m dying to see the process, the way the magic happens, not just the final heartstrings-tugging result. “I don’t mind at all.”
“The paint is not dry, and some of the details are still missing. I can’t bring it over.”
I chuckle lightly, his frantic excuses so damn cute. “No problem. I can come to your studio.”
He pales. “It’s not really a proper studio though. I paint at home.”
Is he saying that hoping to deter me? Or does he think I’m one of those snobs who only set foot in vintage studios with hardwood floors, decorative wallpaper, plants and sunlight streaming in through bay windows?
Tucking my hands in my pockets, I shrug. “I won’t come if it’s a problem for you.”
His eyes widen a bit and the frown eases. “No! It’s fine, you can come. Just… don’t expect anything fancy.”
His assertiveness tickles my insides. So he does want me to go, even if part of him seems to have second thoughts. My stomach squeezes. I want to eat him up, to strip him and bend him over and show him just how much he’s gotten under my skin.
It’s a first for me, and it’s exciting. This kind of thrill is new, this hunger to get to know him, to watch him paint, to let his paintings consume me.
“Sunday evening at seven then. Does that work for you?” I retrieve my phone and unlock it, smiling to myself when I realize I already have his number. I do update his name, though.
“Yes! Seven is fine!”
Our hands brush against each other as I put my device away, the contact electric. A shiver runs down my arm, skittering across the rest of my body and bringing with it even more of that sweet and addictive hum I’ve been trying to ignore for the past few minutes. Would he draw me if I asked? I’m dying to know how his eyes see me, the things that stand out, the things that he’s noticed. How much of the real me will come through on the canvas and how much will stay hidden?
It’s exhilarating even just thinking about it. Being stripped, layer by layer, until there is nothing but the rotten core left.
“Great. I’m looking forward to Sunday.”
He opens his mouth, but then abruptly closes it, seeming to debate whether to say what he’s thinking or not. I intend to wait him out, but a text message pulls my attention, which breaks the moment.
“Yeah, me too. See you on Sunday, Mr. Salinger.”
I smirk. “Derek is fine.” I cock my eyebrow. “Please call me Derek, if it’s not too much trouble for you.”
A lovely tint of red caresses his cheeks. But he doesn’t rebut me, biting on his lip and flooding me crazy with want. “If you are sure…”
“I am.”
He nods. “Okay. I’ll see you later then, Derek.”
I will explode, truly. He’s turned my world on its axis, and I’m not even pretending that I want to fight my fall. I’m headedstraight for the bottom, and the only thing left for me to do is hope that he will be there to catch me.
11
Derek
Ihavedoubtsthenext day.
Art is dumb. Pointless, useless, a waste of time, because you could be doing more profitable things with your time. Yet I can’t stop thinking about Daniel’s paintings, the mural and all the others that now grace the walls of the pretentious gallery I opened so rich people like me could pretend they care about things other than money.
It’s so amusingly ironic that I’m going insane just because paint on a wall spoke to my long-dead soul and shocked it back to life.
I lean back in my office chair and stare at the Space Needle, wondering while trying not to acknowledge it whether Daniel’s parents support his artistic journey. Mine sure as hell didn’t. Art wasn’t an acceptable hobby, and understandably so. After all, look at where I am now.
The report on Salinger Tech’s latest financials stares at me from my screen. Fuck you, too. I’ve been trying to focus on it for the past hour, but all I’ve managed to do is read the title. My mind is just elsewhere, even though I’ve been good and notmessaged Daniel at all. It’s Friday today though, which means only Saturday stands between me and my visit to his home studio.
What is he currently painting? It could be anything. Scenery, still life, a portrait, another demon creature ready to wrap its claws around my heart. I crack a smile, my madness spilling out. I want him to draw something for me, for my home, so I can put it up on a wall somewhere and start my mornings by appreciating the play of colors and shapes that characterizes each of Daniel’s paintings.
