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My blood boils hot as I descend the rough-hewn stairs, fresh paint stains splattered on my clothes and my shoulders aching from hunching over on my stool for too long. It’s beyond me why people think they can walk up to someone’s door uninvited and knock.
The whole point of living out here in the middle of nowhere is for some goddamn peace and quiet. But apparently no matter how much distance you put between yourself and society, it still isn’t fucking good enough.
I wasn’t always like this. Twenty years ago, I was fresh out of grad school, a skinny broke art student who was overly confident about his artwork and always up for a party. A hell of a lot has changed since then. Now, my paintings are nothing like the work I did in grad school, and I wouldn’t be able to tell you the last time I did any sort of socializing beyond the brief exchanges I have with the folks in the nearest small town. Even then, it’s not often.
My footsteps clomp on the wood floor as I approach the door. I throw it open, ready to tell off whoever’s on my porch.
When I see the beauty standing there, every flicker of anger drains from my chest.
Jesus. Whoever this woman is, she’s stunning, with her thick brown hair pulled into a high bun, a few strands escaping to frame her round, wide-eyed face. Her full lips are slightly reddened like she’s been standing there chewing on them.
And my God, those curves. She’s not just a little plump—she’s voluptuous. She’s a goddamn work of art. Her divinely thick thighs are pressed together, her cardigan tight around her soft arms, the paunch of her belly looking too restricted by the cinched waist of her skirt.
The sight of her standing on my porch threatens to turn my cock into something as big and hard as the towering trees on my property.
“I’m so sorry to interrupt,” she says, looking up at me. Her voice is like heaven. She’s trying to be professional, but I can see how tightly she’s holding the folder in her hands, her grip making her knuckles go pale. “I’m Sasha, from the gallery.”
Right. Fuck. I’d completely forgotten. Kristina emailed me a few weeks ago about the upcoming show, and I’d agreed on a date for the artwork to be picked up. The paintings for the show are done—I’ve already moved on to a new series—but apparently I’ve moved on from them so much that I even forgot about this pick-up.
It’s not often that I feel regret, but it’s sure surging through me right now. This sweet girl standing on my porch didn’t deserve to be barked at. Here she’s just doing her job, and she opens the door to a snarling beast who’s more than a head taller than her and twice as wide in the shoulders.
I smooth a hand over my unruly mess of hair and offer her a smile that I hope is at least adjacent to welcoming. “I’m Alden. Come on in. You must be tired from the drive.”
She seems surprised by my change of tone, my sudden hospitality, but nods and steps inside. I rarely let people into my house, but with her, I don’t hesitate. She belongs inside. She belongs here, with me. A perfect muse, this beauty.
“Thanks.” Her eyes widen as we step into my cabin. “Wow. This is a gorgeous place.”
I shrug. “It’s home.”
I step into the kitchen and put the kettle on, an old dented thing that’s been with me for years. I’m grateful more than ever for the open floor plan now, so I can watch her as she gazes out my living room window at the view of the valley, and then up to the loft from where soft orchestral music filters down.
“Is that your studio?” she asks.
I nod. “It was intended to be the bedroom, but I set things up differently.” I gesture to the back corner of the main floor, where my bed is separated from the rest of the room with a plain dressing screen. “It’s just me here, so a good space to paint is the most important thing.”
“Just you?”
“Just me.” I guide her over to the couch and offer her the mug of tea, then sit across from her in my old leather armchair. Facing her like this, my fingers itch to sketch her, to get her likeness down. If my sketchbook was within reach right now, I wouldn’t be able to stop myself.
Steaming mug in hand, she scoots over on the couch. “Please. There’s plenty of space.”
She doesn’t have to ask me twice. I grab my mug and move to sit next to her on the couch, the cushions sinking beneath my weight. I’m not close enough to touch her. But I’m close enough that I can see the smattering of freckles on the bridge of her nose, and smell her faint, sweet perfume.
I could get addicted to that smell.
“Was the drive up here okay?” I ask. I’m running through the drive in my mind, thinking of the narrow road and all those dangerous corners. For once in my life I’m annoyed at myself for living in such an inaccessible place. If anything had happened to her—
“It was…interesting,” she says, laughing a little. “I made it up here in one piece, though, obviously. I’m guessing you don’t go down off the mountain very often?”
“I leave as seldom as possible,” I say. “Sometimes a whole month’ll go by.”
“Wow.”
“I know it sounds extreme. But once you get used to it, it’s not bad.” I try to imagine what her life must be like in the city, trying to access that part of my own past. But it feels unreachable now. “How long have you worked for the gallery, Sasha?”
“Just over a year. I’m one of Kristina’s assistants.”
“She treat you all right?”
