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“Yes, cotton candy pink.”
“Cotton candy pink, huh?”
“Yes. Do you like cotton candy, Alex?” Her voice was soft, seductive.
“Of course I do.”
“Do you chew it or let it melt on your tongue?” She leaned forward, her minty breath drifting over my face. My dick practically sprang through my pants as blood rushed to my groin.
“I let it melt on my tongue,” I said out loud and then whispered into my head like I’m going to let you do later.
She nodded and then slowly turned her face away from me. Was she interested in me, or was she playing with me? I didn’t know, which caused me to hold back from saying anything for a little while.
When I did speak, I changed it to a different subject. “So, Milt wants us to pretend this is a date?”
Mya stiffened slightly, but when she turned, I couldn’t see any of the tension in her face. “Yes. Milt thinks that my reputation would be suitable to enhance yours. He suggested that we pretend we are in a relationship. We are seen together in public, perhaps in a romantic sense, like holding hands, a kiss, or two. Enough to allow people to believe you have changed.”
“Changed,” I repeated and stared out the side window as I forced myself not to blow up.
“I’m sorry if that is uncomfortable for you. I’m not thrilled with having to do it either, but it won’t be long, and people will see you in the new light we portray you in.”
I laughed and asked, “What light is that?”
“One where you aren’t a womanizer.”
I ground my teeth and growled, “I’m not a womanizer.”
“Then prove it, Alex. Pretend to be with someone good for you, not someone who helps your bad-boy reputation. If you want your artwork to be taken seriously by the types of people you paint for, then you need to change your image.”
I stared at her, and her gaze softened as she reached forward and squeezed my forearm. “Alex, your work is beautiful. It’s elegant, and you have the ability to see deep into someone’s soul and put it on canvas. People see that in your paintings. They feel it, but you as a person don’t portray that kind of feeling. Patrons who pay that kind of money have difficulty connecting the work to the artist. People who love the art—love the artist. They have to connect to both. That is what makes them fall in love with a piece. I want to help you so that people can fall in love with your work and with you.”
As her words settled in my mind, I wondered if what she said was true. If it were, could someone like Mya ever love a man like me?
