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He’s not who I thought he was at all.
He’s the Collector, and he came here for me.
Robert also made it clear that he’s powerful, and rich. I don’t like rich guys. My brother is the only one I can stand. My father and everyone like him is a privileged asshole, and none of them care about art beyond having a designer choose pieces they can show off at parties. I love parties, but I’ve never liked meeting the men there. The Collector is definitely one of them.
I just—how? How is it him? I thought the Collector would be old and filmy and boring.
This man is not boring. He’s the least boring person I’ve ever seen. The tall, beautiful body I saw in a wetsuit is in a real suit now. Charcoal. A white shirt underneath. The color of the shirt looks calibrated to his skin somehow. The outfit on him makes my mouth water.
And then there’s him. The strong shapes and lines weren’t an illusion created by the wetsuit. They’re all here, wrapped in what’s probably virgin wool and thousand-dollar cotton. There’s something refined about his features, but strong, too—I could see him staring out at me from a painting in the Met, except there’s no roundness to his face. Very little softness. He’s got eyes like I’ve never seen. Blue, but not like the Constantines. They’re darker. Hinting at teal. I would have to be closer to see.
I want to be closer.
And I should get the hell out of here.
Everything he’s said is perfectly reasonable, and that’s why I should leave. It was the same way on the beach. I wanted to listen to him talk all night. I couldn’t stop looking at him in his wetsuit. I wanted those things because I didn’t know what he was.
Oh, this is bad. Leo would freak out if he knew I was doing this. Last week he made me take extra security to meet with another gallery owner. It was a whole thing involving a trip to his house because he thought the other gallery was somehow shadier than Motif. He was right, which I haven’t told him, and I am definitely not going to tell him that I allowed myself to be left alone here. Honestly, he deserves it. He wouldn’t tell me anything about the woman he has staying with him. Haley. Who was pretty and kind and a little bit cagey, if you ask me. She was so nervous. So surprised by me.
The world has gotten me back. I’m surprised by this man.
“I didn’t paint it for you,” I say finally. “I didn’t know it was you.”
His mouth lifts in a smile and an alarm goes off in my head. Loud. Screaming. That smile makes me want to hear him laugh. He didn’t laugh on the beach. He took me seriously. No one takes me that seriously. “You did. But we can pretend it wasn’t a commission, if you’d like.”
Oh, god. I told him about that, too. I was so excited I couldn’t shut up about it. I called it the most important painting of my life. He stands next to my pieces, not looking at them.
He only has eyes for me.
“I’ll show you the gallery first.” Because if I start talking about that damn painting now, I might start laughing and never stop. Or start crying and never stop. “You can come this way.”
He’s there in three quick strides. Close, but not too close. He could reach me if he wanted, but he doesn’t.Closer, a voice whispers in the back of my mind. I want him closer. I don’t know why. I shouldn’t, shouldn’t, shouldn’t. I feel like I’m breathing champagne. Bubbly and cool. I pat my phone in my pocket. Robert is a text away. Same goes with the security team.
The Collector’s eyes flick down when I do it. I’m regretting the long sleeves now. I’m overheating in this dress. Overheating in the force of his gaze. I stare back into it and pretend I’m at a family dinner. Or at one of the fundraisers. Or at Christmas. At those events, I’m Daphne Morelli, and Daphne Morelli doesn’t let everything show on her face.
Some things, because I’m a person and not a statue.
Not everything.
“What are you looking at?” His voice is beautiful and level and casual, but this does not feel casual. I’m staring.
“I’m trying to decide what color your eyes are.” It feels bold to admit it. “It’s hard to tell when there’s no natural light.”
“What would you use if you painted them?”
“I wouldn’t.” This gets another smile out of him. Victory. I really shouldn’t be thinking of his smiles in those terms, but I can’t turn off the firefly glow of pleasure near my heart. “I would start with gray,” I admit. “But I’d be forced to layer in blue and green. If I painted your eyes. Was it a joke?”
He goes back to watching me. Jesus. No one has ever watched me with an intensity like this before. Like every breath I take is a monumental change. “Was what a joke?”
“The commission. Did you even want a painting?” Or did he want to get me alone on the beach? I was the one who thought of it as a commission. He wrote down a place and a time, and I jumped in headfirst.
“I didn’t want a painting.” My heart tears like cheap canvas. “I wanted your painting. I had to see what you would make of my beach.”
The ripped canvas knits itself back together. The cold of that night comes back to me. In my fingertips. Beneath my shoes. But it’s an exhilarating cold.
“My name is Daphne.”
“Emerson.” He holds out his hand to me to shake. I’ve touched him before. He helped me up from my chair that night. Touching him now seems more dangerous. I stick my hand out anyway and put it in his. He hasn’t been swimming, so his skin is warm and dry and he squeezes my hand for exactly the right amount of time. Not a second more. It’s such a perfect handshake that I don’t want to let go when it’s over.
