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Three

Helen

It’s not so bad working for a notorious grump. Rufus Grangemoor is renowned in the art world as a devil, impossible to please and even harder to impress, but after a month in his topple-down hotel, I’m used to him.

Okay, not just used to him. Ilikehim. I’m pulled to the man, like he’s a magnet and I’m a giggly iron filing.

Whenever I see him, my heart thumps extra fast. It’s the altitude, probably. I’ve heard it makes your heart work harder, being up so high.

When he bellows my name from whichever studio he’s chosen for the day, I can judge his mood before I’ve even hit the stairs. I know how he likes his paintbrushes set up; which color paints he needs mixed fresh each day. I make his coffee exactly the way he likes it.

We suit each other. It’s nice.

More often than not, when Mr Grangemoor calls for me, he wants something small. A glass of water or a note taken down. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he just wanted company for a fewminutes, but maybe that’s wishful thinking. After a few hours apart, I sure misshim.

Well. He must have been lonely up here for all these years, in the mountains all by himself. It makes my chest ache whenever I think about it.

Why won’t the townspeople come here to clean? Why do they fall quiet whenever we come into the post office for deliveries? I catch them whispering sometimes behind cupped hands, and one old woman in a shawl even drew the sign of the cross when my boss looked her way yesterday.

Idiots.

Yes, he’s grouchy. Yes, he’s scarred. But Rufus Grangemoor is also noble and funny andcharmingunderneath all that. Can’t they see?

But there are people like that everywhere; people who refuse to look past the surface. In my last apartment building, I had a neighbor who kept sliding printed out Bible verses under my door after she saw me come home in my tight black bartending t-shirt one night, smelling of other people’s booze and cigarette smoke. None of it wasmyfunk, and even if it was, who cares? But she made that snap decision about me.

Well, I don’t judge. And to me it’s clear as day: Rufus Grangemoor is a teddy bear.

“We need a model for next week.”

Lately, he’s started talking aboutoursupplies. We need this, we need that, forourprojects.Giving me credit while he does all the work. It’s nonsense, of course, but sweet too.

See? Teddy bear.

My pen hovers over my notepad, my knees tucked under me in an armchair. It’s late, a fire crackling in the sitting room grate, and all around us are the ghostly silhouettes of hotel chairs covered in dust sheets. The chandelier overhead is draped in cobwebs, but I caught the boss fixing the sign last week—he’sbeen sneaking in renovations when he thinks I’m not looking. Re-tiling bathrooms and painting cupboards. Trying to make the Sky High Hotel more homey.

And the wind moans over the mountains here at night, and the hotel gets freezing, but sitting together by the fire is the best part of my day. We chat or read in comfy silence, maybe tease each other or talk about art, and the whole time, butterflies careen around my stomach.

He’sright there.

Does my boss notice me the way I notice him? Is he hyper aware too, his nerve endings prickling under his skin whenever I get near? Or am I all alone with this mammoth-sized crush?

“Man or woman?” I ask, dragging my brain back on task. He wants me to find an artist’s model. Fine. “Age range? Any specific physical features?”

I’m all business, ignoring the pinch of jealousy in my gut. It’s normal for artists to use models. And what, would I rather my boss sawmenaked?

…Maybe. Okay, definitely.

Ugh.

“Female. Twenties. Long dark hair.” Mr Grangemoor’s eyes flick over me, then away. They stare unblinking into the fire. “Slender build. Light brown eyes.”

That is very specific for a few day’s notice. I nibble on my bottom lip, and I can barely sit still, my stomach is so fluttery. It’s like I’m going to take flight and hover above the ancient armchair.

Does he mean me? Or someone who looks like me? Is he trying to tell me something? I mean, he might as well have ticked my features off a checklist, so… does the famous artist want to paint me?

God. This may be the perfect job, but part of me wishes I’d met Rufus Grangemoor literally any other way. If he weren’t so off limits, maybe things would be different.

“I’ll ask around in town.” My voice is hoarse. I scratch at the notepad with my pen. “And I’ll post listings online. But it’s short notice, boss.” Especially with the way the townspeople avoid him.

Source: www.allfreenovel.com
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