AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“It’s not always a transaction,” I tell him, and he laughs.
We eat in a comfortable silence I wouldn’t have thought was possible when we met. He eats his eggs between the two slices of English muffin. That’s just how he likes to eat eggs, it turns out. I freaked out at him that first morning for nothing.
I take our dishes and put them in his dishwasher, then dry my hands on the dish towel hanging from the handle of his stove.
It’s still early. Plenty of day left.
“So…” A shy heat comes to my cheeks. “What do you want to do now? Work? That’s probably what you do on a normal day.”
“On a normal day. I answer emails and plan for deliveries. Sometimes I attend showings, or gallery openings, or charity auctions.” He smiles. “Don’t worry, little painter.”
“I’m not worried.”
“You thought I might leave you here.”
Fine. He’s right. For a second, I thought he might lock me in and go to a showing. “I can neither confirm nor deny.”
He laughs. It still feels like victory to hear him laugh. “What do you want to do, little painter?”
Go to bed with him. Maybe forever. But right this minute…
“Paint,” I admit. “I want to paint. It’s—” Oof. I don’t usually talk about my painting habits in this much detail. It makes people worry. But Emerson won’t. He already sees everything. “It’s hard for me to go too long without painting. I get headaches if I don’t.”
His gaze intensifies. It’s a heated touch, as real as his hands on my skin. “Headaches?”
“Yeah. Here.” I tap on my temples. “Like pressure.”
“How long do they take to start?”
I wrinkle my nose. “Not that long, honestly. A day or two. Maybe a little longer if I’m on vacation somewhere amazing. Sketching can get me through most times.”
“Crying doesn’t give you any release.”
“I wish. I cry all the time. But…” Now that I think about it. “Maybe it’s having my hands involved that makes the difference. Anyway, I want to paint.”
“Can I watch?” Hope lightens the color of his eyes, and I know, as surely as I’ve ever known anything, that he’ll stay downstairs if I ask him to.
“Yes. On one condition.”
He raises his eyebrows. “What’s that, little painter?”
“That we talk while I paint.”
“I would have thought you’d prefer silence.”
“Sometimes I do, but not today.”
“You don’t want silence?”
“I want to hear your voice.”
Emerson’s cheeks actually flush. He stands up, brushes at his shirt, and offers me his hand. Up in the studio, I marvel at the windows. “Your people did a really good job.”
“They’re specialists.”
He goes through the doors and returns with the heavy chair from his bedroom. It seems effortless for him to move it. He puts it some distance back from the easel. Emerson has given me space to paint, but he’s also given himself space to observe.
“Specialists for artist tantrums?” I choose several paints from the drawers. Emerson replaced all the ones I wasted. Maybe I should be frustrated that I couldn’t actually ruin the space, but I’m glad. These paints are a second chance.
