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Chapter Fourteen
The following evening, Isabel set her brush aside and stepped back, lifting her arms over her shoulders to stretch high on her tiptoes. She'd been at it since she'd woken up this morning and now had a third picture to send to Maxwell Lucas in regard to her potential showcase. Getting the offer was one thing, but as Everett had advised over dinner, she shouldn't accept until meeting with the other curator to see what they had to offer as well.
And today her work had taken a bit of a turn, but she liked it. A lot.
On the way into the restaurant last night, her gaze had been captured by the brick entrance. Old-school. Black awning. Black door. Sort of mysterious. The interior had made her think of speakeasies from the 1920s. That led to fashion, and her painting today had taken shape within moments of putting brush to canvas.
A long, feminine leg, short black fringe, hairpiece made of feathers and sparkles, red lipstick. The woman sat on a stool at a bar, head down, lips pouted, as she stared deeply into her drink.Reflection, her mind whispered. And she knew the title fit well. Who hadn't had that moment of reflection while pondering life's choices?
She'd already planned a series around the speakeasy vibe, knowing she could play upon the seductiveness of the time period, the awareness of the emotions Maxwell Lucas had found so intriguing.
Emotions came in all forms. Weather, dress, facial features, lighting. Even hair. Soft, flowing hair or tight knot?
She grabbed another canvas she'd already prepped and started on it, losing herself in the mechanics of creating. In the art of shadows and light.
Isabel.
"Isabel?"
Large hands descended on her shoulders, and she squeaked out a frightened gasp. Everett. "You scared me again."
"Sorry. It's late. You need to rest."
"I'm working. I'm good."
"Isabel, tomorrow night is the gala. I don't want you falling asleep on me."
The gala. One of the events she'd promised Everett she'd attend.
"The stylist will be here in a few hours, too."
She turned to face him and sucked in a sharp breath. Everett stood shirtless, gray sweatpants slung low on his hips. "What time is it?"
"Three thirty. You've been at this all day. I know artists create while the iron is hot but you need to rest."
"My meeting with the gallery is the day after tomorrow—er, today."
"I'm well aware. But it'll do you no good to sleep through it, either."
His gently calloused hands framed her face and lifted it so she had to meet his gaze. She didn't mind. It kept her eyes off his chest and the muscles there. This was an Everett she hadn't painted. One that needed to be.Soon.
"Cover your paints. You're going to bed."
"You can't—"
"I can. I need you at my side at your best, Isabel. Not worn out and exhausted. Cover your paints while you have the chance or they won't get covered."
Sensing he meant it, she huffed as she turned and draped a cloth over her paints, determined to fix things properly after a couple hours' sleep.
"Good. Bed for you."
"I can take myself to bed, Everett."
He chuckled and moved toward her in such a way she took a step back, another, all the way to the door of the makeshift studio until he locked it before pulling it closed behind them.
"Hey!"
"Bed," he ordered, looking far too serious and…gorgeous.
