AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“I know.” His scowl deepens, and the firelight casts deep shadows across his face.
The fire pops. My heart’s thrumming like a trapped hummingbird. “If I can’t find anyone in time,” I hear myself say, and Mr Grangemoor goes extra still. His lips part, and though he won’t look at me, Iknowhe’s straining to hear my next words. “Shall—shall I do it? Shall I model for you?”
Silence stretches between us, taut and heavy. Embarrassment heats my cheeks. And what was I thinking? Of course he doesn’t want to paintme.I’m the girl who talks his ear off when she’s nervous and who wanders around with charcoal smudges on her nose.
But after a long pause he sighs, shoulders relaxing. And the smile he throws me is barely there; nothing more than a twitch of his beard. “I’d be grateful, Helen.”
Oof.
Would I survive a day spent with Rufus Grangemoor’s dark eyes on my bare body? Just the two of us alone in a room for hours on end, not staring at the fire but at each other? I might incinerate on the spot, burning to a crisp.
He’s just so… somanly.Tall and bearded and broody, limping around in his paint-splattered workman’s boots and thick, faded shirts, the sleeves rolled up his corded forearms. Mr Grangemoor looks like he could lift me up in one palm and perch me on his shoulder, and wow, that thought turns me to jelly.
Maybe I won’t even try to find another model.
No. Bad Helen.
“I’m sure I’ll find someone,” I say, and the thought of his heated gaze on my nude body is making my head spin. “It’s good money, right? And all they have to do is lie there without bathroom breaks for a few hours. Those buses trained me for that, haha. But I’ll find someone else, probably. Um.”
Stop. Talking.
“I modeled a few times in art college, but it wasn’t, you know, all the way. I covered over the main bits with an artsy bit of cloth.” My cheeks are on fire. “Do you want anything from the kitchen, Mr Grangemoor?”
Springing out of my armchair, I flee the room.
It’s new, this routine. Spending the evenings together in the warmth, sipping mugs of cocoa. Sometimes I worry that I’m bothering him, but he could leave, right? He’s a grown man and my boss. If anyone could escape my disastrous company, it’s him.
“Whiskey,” Mr Grangemoor calls, his deep voice rumbling through the walls. I shiver.
And as I take refuge in the shadowy kitchen, pressing my hands against my flushed cheeks, I can’t help grinning into the darkness. A faucet drips into the sink, and the tiles are cold beneath my fluffy socks. Modeling. Modeling forhim.I can’t believe the conversation I just had.
It’s notthatbad of an idea, is it?
I’m an artist’s assistant. He’s an artist. It’s a way to assist. And I might be naked, but there’d be nothing wrong with it, because it’s art. Nothing to see here; no reason to second guess.
And let’s be honest. I snatch up the empty kettle and shuffle to the sink, the kitchen tiles chilling my toes. There areplentymore shameless ways that I’d love to help out my boss.
If he’d ever let me, that is.
* * *
The next night, we meet after midnight on the staircase. The lights are all out, the inside of the hotel lit by the moon, and outside, rain lashes the scrubby mountainside. Lightning flashes now and then, spearing out of the clouds, and every rumble of thunder makes me wince.
I hate storms. God, I’m such a big baby, but whenever there’s a storm I just want to crawl under the bed and hide there with the dust bunnies until dawn.
“Helen?” Mr Grangemoor is a large patch of shadow, looming over me on the stairs. A calloused hand takes my elbow, steadying me, and I see the glint of moonlight in his eyes. “What are you doing still up?”
It’s a fair question. I go to bed before eleven most nights, taking a hot water bottle with me like an old lady.
“Th-the storm,” I say, teeth chattering, inching toward my boss’s body heat. The wind whistles clean through this old wreck of a building, ruffling the curtains and banging the front door in its frame. I swear, standing this close to the window, I can feel specks of rain dot my face.
“Ah.” The shadow shifts closer. His scent comes with it: soap and the faint tang of turpentine. “You couldn’t sleep?”
“No.” The place where Mr Grangemoor’s hand touches my elbow is the only warm point on my whole body. I can’t help nudging closer, moving so he’s gripping my upper arm instead. “I’m a wimp about storms.”
“This is nothing,” he warns, but he’s not bragging. That deep voice is rueful. “It gets far worse in these parts. Some nights it’s like the walls might shake apart. The old ladies in town think the local spirits are trying to smite me to hell.”
Whew. Bigger storms. Okay, I can handle that idea. Ican.
