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“I suppose you’re right,” Pixie says.
“For example, you,” I say smiling by best I-have-to-have-you smile. “You are someone who should be painted.”
She blushes, and then she steps back. It’s clear she’s offended, and that’s a first for me. I always have women eating out of my hand, and other parts too. This one's not buying it, and for the first time, I’m on 'virgin' territory.
When she turns to walk into the photo gallery next door, all I can do is follow.
Chapter 4
Katherine
I've never taken a photography class in my life, and I'm not well-versed in the art of it all—if you don't count taking pictures with my cell phone—but I do know what I like. And this photo exhibit is…interesting.
It's a photographer's portrait collection calledRed Hot.
The theme that binds each and every one of these pictures is that the models in these photos are all redheads.
"I've always thought gingers were sexy," Robin says, secretly giving me a wink as we walk through the gallery. "If this doesn't inspire you with your writing, I don't know what will."
In one photo, a man is flexing, and seemingly deep in thought with his gaze somewhere in the distance. The background is blue, matching his eyes.
In another portrait, a man stares down the lens of the camera, his red beard and chiseled chest acting as focal points.
"Like what you see?" The guy following us asks, walking up behind me and nudging me playfully. “The name’s Blake, by the way.”
"Katherine,” I say as I try to think of a reply. “You could say that," I smile.
Two can play this game.
"Just so you know," he says, pointing and looking straight at my neck, "that freckle is more beautiful than anything I'm seeing on these gingers."
"Nice try, but I don't have freckles."
"You do," he says, stepping closer and brushing his fingers just below my ear. "It's right there."
The second he touches me, a thrill runs down my body. I find myself blushing against my will.
How did he notice that freckle? I completely forgot about it. It's such a small detail…but I have to admit, he's right. I do have a small freckle on my neck. It's there all right, and always has been.
I look him up and down for a moment. If I'm being honest, there's something hot about Blake.
Sure, he's a great looking guy—built and charming, with piercing eyes, the intensity of a blowtorch. But there's also a poetic confidence about him that is unusual. He seems to view the world through the lens of art—looking through color, symmetry, and shape—and he isn't apologetic about it. I can respect that.
But…and this is a seriousbut—he has some major personality flaws.
He's arrogant, and probably goes through women faster than he changes outfits.
And I'm not about to get played by another man again—not after Dale. And something tells me that getting involved with Blake is like holding a match to a gas tank.
Total chaos and drama.
Robin walks ahead us, scrutinizing the walls of photos, and Blake takes the opportunity to walk beside me.
"I have a question and need a woman's advice," he says, changing the subject.
"Sure," I say, shrugging my shoulders.
"Let's say—hypothetically speaking—I see an attractive woman," he says. "Do I approach her, or is that too direct?"
