Page 23 of Apparently, I’m A B!tch

Chapter13

Nikki

There wassomething about watching Tristan teach that sent a thrill through my body, making me clench my thighs together as I sat on my stool. It was kind of great that I could use my role as a student to stare at him as he taught. He told the class about the issues of working with oil paint, that the room needed to be ventilated, explaining that it was more difficult to use than acrylic paint because of its chemical composition, and blending needed to happen on the palette, not on the canvas.

He set up a projector that splashed against the whiteboard, showing us an image of his already-finished portrait as how it would look if it was just a generic bundle of shapes, and he had us begin with sketching. We used pencils to map it out, with him inviting us to use rulers if that would help.

Uncle Henry was next to me, ruler in one hand, pencil in the other. He sat close to the canvas, focused and squinting, shifting his head this way and that, working with his not-so-great eye-sight. I tried to give my own canvas the kind of concentration I gave to one of my cases, but couldn’t see drawing shapes and mixing paint as something that would make me lose sleep like my current sexual harassment case had been doing.

Once I’d opened the file, it was clear that Harvey handed me an instant loss, and I’d spent Friday night stewing over it. On Saturday, as I combed through the details, hopelessness set in, and I tossed and turned, haunted by the idea of praising Harvey with a speech. But, despite the lack of adrenaline, this class was a welcome distraction. And so was Tristan.

I tore my eyes away from him as he floated around the class, peering over the shoulders of his students, offering softly voiced advice as he surveyed their work.

Being in his class was different from being his customer at Extra Shot. At Extra Shot, the counter, the jumble of customers, Lilly with her funny and endearing stories, Shawn with his sly-but-harmless quips, and my hunger for my pastry, would split my focus until Tristan was just one of the many familiar things in the room.

Here, he was the only thing.

His voice was deep, authoritative and persuasive, and as I watched him teach, he seemed to come alive with a confidence I hadn’t seen in him before.

The way he dressed was also a surprise. He looked completely drool-worthy in his beat-up shirts, stained jeans and black apron, but seeing him in smart black trousers and a white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up forced me to look at him in a way I refused to do in the coffee shop. His trim waist was made leaner by his broad shoulders, thickened by muscle that couldn’t be hidden by his clothes. I felt how hard his chest was the day Lilly threw me into him, and after years of working together, I couldn’t believe I still didn’t know what was hiding under that apron.

Ugh, why did he have to look so good? It wasn’t fair. I was supposed to be spending the afternoon with Uncle Henry, not perving on my ex-friend.

I furiously scribbled lines according to Tristan’s instructions, willing myself not to be distracted by him, and the image started to take shape. I reared back and frowned at it, and was somewhat amazed at what I was creating.

“Huh. What you think, agapi mou?” Uncle Henry’s rough voice broke my concentration and I looked at his canvas.

“Not bad, Theios. You’re good at this.” I shot him a smile and he hmphed as if he wasn’t surprised by my praise.

My eyes caught on Tristan as he watched us, a grin playfully forming on his face. My stomach flipped as another blush spread through me, and I focused on my canvas again.

Once we were done outlining, Tristan had us soften the edges of each shape until it miraculously formed a pencil sketch of his finished painting. I couldn’t believe I managed to draw something that looked like something. I stared at my canvas, mind racing over the many stick figures I’d drawn over the years. I’d never made anything like this before. This… was an unprecedented moment in my life. It was both fun and oddly therapeutic.

So much of my life was about law, research, building facts and arguments. Stress upon stress upon stress. Was this why Tristan was always so patient and kind? Because he had this creative, cathartic outlet to fall back on?

Tristan’s voice commanded the room, breaking into everyone’s reverie. “Over the next six weeks, we’ll be focusing on mixing paint and applying it based on composition and chemical alignment. We’ll paint small sections, one area at a time, until we’re done. What I’ll have you do today is focus on the leaves of the image.” He directed us to mix the oil paint on our palettes until mine was covered with varied shades of green and yellow.

I mixed in a way that was messier than I would’ve liked, managing to get paint on my fingers. I wiped them against my shirt, getting some of the slick sticky stuff off, and leaned in close to my painting.

The leaves were starting to take shape, or at least I thought they were, when a voice behind me made me jump. I flicked my brush, leaving a streak of yellow across the upper left corner of my canvas.

Tristan made a noise as I groaned. “Sorry, Nikki, I didn’t mean to… let me help.” He took hold of my hand, lifting it and the brush. His face came close as he bent from behind me, and I fought a shiver as his breath brushed against my ear.

“See, if you feather it out, when you paint over the top with a new shade, it’ll blend and cover the streak.”

Tremors of heat raced from my fingers to my navel as he made my hand work. Biting my lower lip, I tried to keep my attention on his technique as the brush moved, smoothing the edges of yellow against the white.

My whole body was on fire, deeply uncomfortable with having him so close. While I was grateful for the deodorant I sprayed this morning, sweat was now beading in my armpits and it seemed like he didn’t feel a thing, which only made it worse.

I tried to relax my hunched shoulders, lowering them as he whispered, “There, all better. Now if you can try to stroke with flicks, like this…” He leaned closer to the canvas, his body weight against my shoulder, causing flutters deep in my lower belly, and I stiffened, but I thought I was handling it okay.

I was calm and quiet, sure that he had no idea of how he was making me feel, until he put a hand on my hip and I jumped at the contact, yelped, turned and pushed at his chest with a paint-splotched hand.

As Tristan stepped back and straightened, he searched my panicked face while Uncle Henry twisted in his stool to look up at us, asking, “Nikki? You alright?”

“I’m so sorry,” I mumbled, taking in the multi-colored patches of green on Tristan’s white shirt. “Here.” I dropped the paintbrush onto the table and lifted the hem of my tee, undoing the knot and wrapping it around my stained hand.

“It’s alright, Nikki. You don’t have to…”

I feverishly swiped at his chest, taking a while to notice that the rest of the class turned to watch me harass our teacher.

Oh shit.

My hand froze as I realized what I was doing, and I stepped back, looking up at his paint-smeared shirt and then at his confused face. His hands were hovering in the air between us as if he were afraid of touching me again, his whole stance telling me how uncomfortable I’d made him.

There was a time when the two of us touching wouldn’t have meant a thing. It really was different between us now.

“I’m sorry. I was trying to fix it, but I think I made it worse.”

He swallowed as his gaze dropped lower, and I realized I was flashing the class my entire midriff and the lacy underside of my beige bra.

“Put your shirt down, Nikki,” Uncle Henry ordered in a hushed, fatherly voice.

I pushed my hem down, unwrapping my hand, my face well and truly as red as it could possibly be. Sitting on my stool, I turned back to my easel, wishing the canvas would swallow me whole.