With that, he smiles, opens the door of his office, and leads me inside.
It takes a moment for me to drink it all in. Most offices feel stuffy or cold, with sharp angles and no personality. Zane’s is different in every way. The room is painted a deep navy blue, even the ceiling. The floor is the same wood as in the rest of the house, and there’s a Moroccan inspired rug covering the part where the desk is.
And the desk isn’t really a desk at all. It’s a drafting table of sorts. The top is covered with works in progress, sketches and paintings, and photos and jars of brushes and pencils.Underneath is a shelf lined with more brushes, paper, and blank canvases.
Then something occurs to me.
“It’s not an office,” I say out loud as I slowly turn to take everything in.
“No, not really,” he says. “But honestly, I do all my work in gyms and studios and–”
“On beaches,” I tease, and he smiles.
“Yeah…”
“This is more of a sanctuary, for lack of a better word,” he says as he shoves his hands in his pockets and walks slowly around the room.
“I don’t think there is a better word,” I tell him. “That word is perfect.”
There is so much to see in here, and my eyes don’t know where to land first. There are finished paintings and sketches on the walls, and unfinished ones on the table. But I am drawn to the one on the easel.
“Is this one finished?” I ask.
Zane walks up behind me and studies it for a moment before answering. “I’m not sure,” he says.
“I hope this doesn’t sound rude…” I say. “But um…what is it?”
“I’m not sure,” he says again, and I look up at him with a curious smile.
“It started as a guy walking on the beach…and then I figured I’d add a sunset, so that’s where the vibrant colors come in. But then I felt like…it was too bright and his stance too rigid. Like he’s not just going for a leisurely walk or even an evening jog. He’s running from something. Battling something,” Zane lets out a breath and steps forward towards the canvas. “And then I started using darker colors, and it turned it into a storm. And the storm made the waters less calm and turned into waves. Not rolling waves but crashing, angry waves that could swallow the man whole.”
“And yet there’s still color,” I say softly, studying the painting. “And maybe the man’s stance isn’t rigid; it’s strong. He’s facing things.”
“What kinds of things?” he asks. “His demons?”
“Demons. Light. Dark. Good. Bad. All of it,” I answer.
“So…what do you think? Do you think the painting is done?” he asks.
I pull my eyes away to look at him. “I don’t know if this painting works that way,”
He chuckles. “What do you mean?” he asks.
I step closer to him, tugging on the hem of his shirt. “I think, considering what it represents, it might never be done.”
His lips pull into a slow smirk, and his eyes go sunburst, dark flecked with light, fire with ice, just like the colors in the painting. Then he pulls me even closer, our bodies pressing together.
“You know,” he says. “We have an hour before we technically have to pick Bentley up from daycare…”
“No, we don’t,” I say, and he stops.
“What do you mean?” he asks.
“I mean, we aren’t picking up Bentley tonight. Demi already picked him up. We have the night off…” I say, biting my lip and dragging it through my teeth.
“Really…?” he asks slowly.
“Mmhmm… and there’s more…”
