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“Yay,” Lia says with a little squeak, making me laugh. “Be at my house by noon so we can start getting ready.”
“What time is the gala?”
“Eight,” she says.
“It will not take eight hours to get ready.”
“You’re going to look like a goddess when I’m through with you,” Lia promises. “See you tomorrow!”
She hangs up, and I wrinkle my nose. The guilt of taking time away from work that I don’t have settles between my shoulder blades.
But one of the things I’ve been working on this year is taking more time for me. I moved out of California because it was killing me. I was working fifteen-hour days, seven days a week, and the result of that was illness and despair. I’ve battled asthma all my life, and the long hours and some of the spices in the bakery were hell on me. Now, I have my own shop where I can control the environment, along with how many hours a day I work, and I can admit, my asthma has been better. Taking care of myself is important.
And taking one day to be with my family is part of that self-care.
Working through the night is totally worth it.* * *This was the right call. Being out of the bakery today and immersed in art is exactly what I needed for a fresh perspective. Soaking in someone else’s vision always renews my passion for my own creativity.
It seems my muse likes to hang out in museums.
And the O’Callaghan Museum of Glass in Seattle is my very favorite of all of them.
I’m sitting on a bench in the middle of one of the exhibit rooms, soaking it all in.
I’ve never met Kane O’Callaghan, the artist who creates such beauty. He seems to love color, as it’s splashed around me. In this room, the glass is shaped like water, waves crashing on beaches with marine life floating around. Blues, greens, and white with splashes of yellow and red here and there tickle my senses.
I can practically hear the beach around me.
With the hair standing on my skin, I reach for my sketchpad and pencils. With my legs crossed, I get to work, my pad in my lap.
People walk past me, but I hardly notice them. I’m consumed by the design that’s taking shape in my head and on the paper. I take breaks, looking up at the glass, the color, the fluidity of the work, and then keep sketching.
I don’t know if I’ve ever drawn a full concept so quickly.
Once I’m finished, I take a deep breath and notice my chest is beginning to feel heavy. I glance around, surprised to see a man sitting on the bench opposite mine, watching me with lazy, green eyes.
“Can I help you?” I ask the handsome stranger. He has dark hair with matching stubble on his chin, and eyelashes framing those bright green orbs.
“I was just going to ask you the same question,” he says with a voice laced with milk chocolate.
“I’m just enjoying the exhibit,” I say, giving him a polite smile.
“Looks like you’re enjoying your little drawing there,” he replies, nodding at the pad in my lap. I close it and drop the smile.
“Just working,” I say.
“In a museum?”
I blow out a breath of impatience. “Do you work here?”
He tilts his head to the side, watching me. “Not really.”
“Then it’s none of your business, is it?”
“Are you one of those people who sits in museums and copies the art there because you can’t come up with original work of your own?”
“Are you always an asshole, or just today?” I retort, getting more pissed by the second. “Surely, I’m not the only person in the world who gets inspired by art. In fact, I think that’s the point of it.”
He doesn’t say anything, just blinks and watches me quietly. He’s not creepy. I don’t get a dangerous vibe from him. If I did, I’d run out of here and alert security.
“Can I see the sketch?” he asks, surprising me.
“It’s just a—”
“I’d still like to see it.” His lips tip up in a half-smile that would melt far stronger women than I, and he holds his hand out, waiting for me to pass over my pad.
Finally, I flip through the pages to what I was just working on and pass it over to the handsome stranger.
His eyes narrow as he examines the crude drawing. I instantly wish I’d used more color and been more thorough, but it’s only supposed to be for my eyes. A guideline for when I start decorating the cake in just a couple of days.
“There is no water here,” he says in surprise and looks up at me. “It doesn’t look anything like the glass in this room.”
“Why would it?” I frown. “I’m inspired, not copying. Besides, that’s just a sketch. When I make the final piece, I’ll know what I was thinking when I thought it up.”
