Chapter 14
Saying he was shocked, would have been an understatement. To blow it off, Dylan honored Chloe’s request for wine, even poured himself a glass. Then the two decided to move to the living room, parking their buns on the couch by the fireplace. More than ever, Dylan wanted to know about the woman seated only inches away from him, intrigued by her every move. The way she sat, one leg tucked under the other. The way she twirled a strand of hair around her index finger. The way she inhaled the scent of wine before taking a sip, as if to allow all of her senses to savor it.
The wind outside seemed to hum, the entire apartment much cooler than normal.
“If the wine doesn’t warm us up, the flames should in a few minutes. It’s not usually cool enough to use the fireplace this time of year.”
“Thanks for being so sweet and hospitable, Dylan. And I’m sorry for being so blunt earlier. I usually don’t share the lackluster details of my love life.” Her eyes were much softer, relaxed, compared to the hard, narrowed glare she dished when they were in the kitchen.
“Don’t let it hold you back from writing what your characters deserve. What your readers deserve, if it’s that they’re truly hungry for.”
“And how can I write what I don’t know? I mean, Walter—he’s my ex-boyfriend, by the way—he and I never really had more than ten minutes of intimate moments during the few times we slept together. In fact, we never actuallyslepttogether. He often left soon after, citing he had work to do back at his house.”
Jerk. Why would any man disregard a woman as breathtaking as Chloe? All night, Dylan had been wondering how her lips would feel, taste like, meshed with his. If he had a chance, he wouldn’t waste a single minute with her. “If you don’t mind me asking, how long were you together?”
“Five years, up until we split up just over a year ago. We’d met during my second year in college. He was my first real boyfriend. My first and only lover.”
“With all due respect, it sounds like he wasn’t much of a lover. Or a boyfriend, for that matter.”
He gleamed internally when a smile moved across her face before she took a swig of wine. “I do believe you’re correct. Hence my dilemma.”
“Why did you finally break up? Besides the obvious, of course.”
“Walter began sending me email invites to schedule our monthly dates. That, of all the things, was my tipping point.” She took in a deep breath, raked her fingers through her hair. “It was pretty evident we, as a couple, weren’t going anywhere. Our interests weren’t the same. Our love life a complete dud. I felt as though time was being thrown away. I could either be unhappy with a guy who didn’t seem to care about me. Or be happy all on my own. I chose happy.”
“A wise choice. And are you…happy?” He studied her non-verbal reaction. The biting of her lower lip. Fingernails tapping the rim of the wine glass. Eyes momentarily fixed to the ceiling.
“For the most part, yes. But, if I’m being one-hundred percent honest, I long for love and it’s been quite the distraction lately. Which could be one reason why I’ve been blocked.”
“Blocked?”
“Writer’s block. And, it didn’t help matters when—only yesterday—my editor, threw a curveball, revealing I need to add sexy elements to my novel. And I’m not at all sure if I want to do that to my readers. Part of me says I should stick to my gut and keep everything status quo.”
Dylan could see the worry, anguish, the level of uncertainty in Chloe’s eyes. He wanted to support her in overcoming whatever obstacle was in the way of getting over the slump. “Maybe I can help you…upstairs.”Dude, you’re an idiot. Without a doubt, Dylan didn’t mean it the way it probably sounded.
Chloe’s eyes went wide, her face crimson. “What? You’d like to help meupstairs?”
“No, not at all likethat.”Dylan set his glass on the oval coffee table, met Chloe’s semi-evil glare, and said, “What I meant was, I’ve got something to show you upstairs. I think it may help. You can even wait down here while I go up and grab it, but—”
“I trust you, Dylan. I mean, you did catch me off guard for a second”—she chuckled—“but, like I said, I trust you.”
“Good to know. Follow me.”
As the two reached the top of the stairs, Dylan led the way to one of the bedrooms. “I haven’t been in here for a few months,” he said while they stood in front of the door. “I’ve been meaning to fix it up, but haven’t had the time, really.” Turning the knob, Dylan pushed the door open, a subtle creaking sound breaking the silence. Then after he flicked the light switch on the wall, he entered the room, closely followed by his curious houseguest.
“Dylan, are these—”
“Part of my old life?” He stood hands in pockets, with a slow bop of his head.
The spacious room, its white walls and maple-hardwood floors, was the epitome of organized chaos. Paint cans were scattered about; furniture—a desk, chair, two small bookshelves, and a cozy love seat—sat in one corner of the room. Then there were photos, some hung up, while others were positioned on the floor, propped against the walls. You’d think he’d just moved in yesterday, rather than six months ago. And even though he claimed not to have had time to fix it up, the honest truth was, he didn’t have the desire. Avoiding all things related to his past life, was the first thing, written in all caps, on his to-do list. Even if one of those things used to be his passion, his strength, his first love. Photography.
Chloe stood in the middle of the room, mouth slackened, surveying eyes mesmerized. “All of these photos…did you shoot them?”
There were at least twenty laid up against the walls, all different sizes, backgrounds, each silently begging to be displayed with pride.
“Yep. I haven’t gotten around to hanging them all up yet.” He pointed to the cans of paint in the far right corner. “I thought maybe I’d brighten up a few walls first.”
Chloe shrugged. “The pictures alone would suffice, in my opinion.” She stepped over to them, took a closer look. “They’re beautiful, Dylan.”
Beautiful. It was a term used more often than not every time someone laid eyes on his photos. Sophisticated black and whites, color-accented by one or two items in each photo, became his uniquely identifiable signature. A couple kissing in the rain—her red shoes the only splash of color added to the photo. A woman walking in a field of daisies—yellow from just a few daisies, the only sprinkle of color. It was photos like these that got his work showcased in galleries, earning enough money for him to partner with his scumbag, backstabbing friend, and open Posed Photography Studio. He won awards, had his pictures featured in magazines, books, and was awarded a contract with a cosmetic line, which is how he met the cheating ex, Cynthia—a model recognizably known by her first name. All viable reasons why avoiding this room, even the camera equipment packed in the closet, was something Dylan did purposefully.
At least until now.
