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ChapterFourteen
Piper
“Do you ever stop working?” We’ve been on the road for an hour, and Oliver has been on his laptop the entire time.
“I’m a busy man.”
My eyes dip over him. I’m wearing leggings and a cropped T-shirt. My hair is pulled back into a janky ponytail. It’s a three-hour drive to Whitby, and I wanted to be comfortable.
Oliver’s dressed down—for him—in gunmetal-gray slacks and a black button-up dress shirt. As usual, every hair on his head is in its correct place, and his jawline is clean and shaved. Even his hair follicles refuse to defy him.
We didn’t get on the road until two because of his meetings, so I spent my morning with Mindy. I showed her the Best Dad Award statue, and we decided to put it on the mantel in the living room—a high place of honor since Mindy hems and haws over every little detail in her apartment.
“Do you own any casual clothes?” I ask.
His head tilts. “Define casual.”
“Jeans.”
“Yes.”
“Do you wear them?”
He taps on his keyboard for a few seconds. “Not with any regularity.”
My brain conjures a compelling image of him in low-slung jeans that hug his hips then combines that with no shirt, defined chest, rumpled hair… maybe a stubbled jawline. I clear my throat, shifting in the seat. “You would look good in jeans.” The murmured words fall out before I can stop them.
His fingers stop tapping.
Crap. I clench the steering wheel a little tighter. “What about sweats or track pants?”
“Yes. When I exercise.”
“Do you ever wear workout clothes just out and about or when you’re relaxing at home?”
Out of the corner of my eye, his head turns and his gaze hitting hits me like a caress. “No.”
I switch lanes, passing a slow-moving semi, enjoying the smoothness of the ride and the easy response of the engine. We took one of Oliver’s vehicles, a Cadillac Escalade that has all the bells and whistles and drives like a dream. The back could seat my entire family, which is saying something since there are a million of us.
“Don’t you ever take a break?” I ask.
“Do you?”
Ha. If only he knew. I am currently in the longest, most exhausting break of my life. I would do nearly anything to get my creative juices flowing and actually get to work again. For the first time in years, though, I have hope. The thought is thrilling and terrifying. I still have to take the idea and breathe life into it, but it’s got the potential to be good. Maybe even great. If I can make it happen.
Talking with Oliver helped me yank the idea out of my lifeless muse, so it stands to reason that spending more time with him might help even more. And now I know there’s no Emma standing in my way. I just need to get him to agree to sleep with me. Easy peasy.
“Of course. I mean, usually even if I’m not in the studio, I’m thinking about what I’m going to work on. But metal work is what I do. It’s not who I am.” The words trip out of me and then hit me in the face with the truth of them.
Metal work doesn’t define me. It’s not the sum total of who I am. Have I been tying all my self-worth into what I create? Is that part of the problem?When did this happen?
Ben helped me become successful, exclusive, celebrated. He would always say how amazing I was, at first, anyway. Then his comments slowly turned, a degree at a time, until they had flipped one hundred eighty degrees. Once he flipped, he would criticize my choices and offer me his ideas to make my work better. If I disagreed, it would turn into a huge fight. When I agreed and followed his suggestions against my better judgment, not only did it leave me with a bitter taste in my mouth, but the pieces wouldn’t sell. And it was my fault, according to him.
I know I can’t define my personal worth based solely on my occupation. But since I haven’t been able to create, I’ve been thinking I’m a fraud, an imposter. Maybe I took Ben’s words to heart more than I realized. After all, I was making what he wanted and not what I wanted.
I need to find myself again and go of the critical voice in my mind telling me I’m not good enough, will never be good enough. That voice doesn’t belong to me, anyway.
I startle back to the moment. We’ve both been quiet for a few miles while I dealt with my inner turmoil. What is he thinking? Does he do the same—value himself only for his work and nothing else?
