AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“Hmm,” criticisms fill my mind. “You’ll get it,” I assure myself. It's a necessity for me. This is an opportunity I can’t mess up. The sound of the office door opening makes me jump. Of
course, it's none other than him. He's dressed like before--slicked hair, a dark suit, matching dress shoes, and a watch strapped to his left wrist. It's like he hasn’t gone home. That can’t be; his face is bright and refreshed, unlike the stinging tiredness in my eyes that was made worse by the light reflecting against the whites of the canvas. His fitted, black suit tightens against his figure when he sits. The tug on my heart intensifies when his eyes flick in my direction and then shift past me. Silence prevails.
Grabbing my paintbrush, I dip it into the jar of water. Details. It's hard enough to sketch him on the canvas, but the particulars pierce holes through my lungs, and I can’t stop the rushing air from escaping me. His lashes are more extended than I remembered, and his eyes—a clearer blue. The brush gets a thorough cleaning. The drips of water that fall from the bristles are loud in my ears. Color fogs the clear liquid, dirtying it into a muddy brown.
The concept of time is lost. The haughty man before me leaves me feeling both enamored and repulsed. Focusing my energy on him is draining. Still, artwork is my craft, something I enjoy, yet every time he sits in front of me, it strips away art’s joy. How does he do it? How is his presence so infuriating, so—the cup of blackish paint water tips over.
The jar bounces against the plush surface, its dark water seeping into the black carpet, blending right in. A breath escapes my lungs, but I feel my pulse stutter when I see Evan Blackburn’s agitated expression, looking down at the damp spot on the floor. He's going to fire me. I’m just waiting for him to make it a reality. He stands, hands in his pockets, shakes his head, and leaves.
Not even to berate me would he speak more than he already has."My meeting awaits,”and,“Finish it later.”
Although anger tempts me, it's shame that warms my cheeks. Spilling paint water on aclient’s carpetis unacceptable.
“Evan'scarpet,” I mutter, pressing my palms to my face. The door opens, and I hear a disappointed ‘tsk.’
Avi ambles over to me. I must come across as pathetic, slouched, and
frowning, the invisible stain with a darkened outline staring back at us
both.
“Come back tomorrow. Don’t worry about the stain; the janitor will clean it,” he remarks.
“What?raising a question. Come back tomorrow?
“Come. Back. Tomorrow. Same time,” he pronounces every word.
“Toddler isn't my current stage.”
“You have the comprehension skills of one,” he snarkily counters. No doubt, he's quite pleased with himself for that. Choosing not to entertain him, I proceed to pack up once more. This was a disaster. Somehow, I am invited to return.
Each morning, I arrive at INNO CORP and am greeted by the same receptionist with her cheery "Good morning!" The aroma of fresh coffee wafted from the break room. The elevator's
familiar hum carries me to Evan’s floor, where the monotonous beep of the access card soon becomes as second nature as unlocking my own front door.
The rhythm of my life finds a predictable beat with each visit. The imposing walls of the upscale office begin to echo with familiarity. Morning light filters through the blinds, changing the atmosphere of the room with each passing day. It’s not only an office to me—it's a canvas of memories filled with the soft sounds of Evan's pen tapping or the rustle of papers.
Yet, Evan remains an enigma. Day in, day out, he's as constant as the sunrise: lips sealed, gaze unwavering. It's almost mesmerizing, this dance of ours—him watching me paint and me stealing glances, trying to decode the thoughts hidden behind those intense eyes.
His sharp glower sent a rush of heat to my cheeks, reminding me of the paint water incident. That moment made it clear: Keeping his thoughts to himself would be preferable over those disapproving stares he's offering.
The days continue to pass, and the layers on the canvas accumulate, capturing the nuances of his character and the play of light and shadow on his features. Time slips away from me, yet the painting approaches its completion.
One evening as the sun is setting, I add the last stroke. "Done," I whisper, surprised at the gentleness of my own voice. There's no need to raise my voice; Evan's shifting presence, drawing nearer, clearly shows his interest.
Before I can lift up the canvas, I feel his warmth nearby, his observation analyzing every brushstroke over my shoulder. The weight of the moment settles around us as minutes stretch on, building a bridge of silent understanding between artist and muse.
“Again,” he directs. Hesitation grips me as I contemplate looking up at him.
“Pardon?” a question is raised.
“Do it again,” he reiterates. The artwork? I want to ask for clarification, but I bite my tongue, remembering Avi’s comment. So, I sit looking confused.
“I’ll add an extra thousand to your pay. Just start over,” he states.
“Okay…I’ll be back tomorrow, same time, I assume—”
“No, you’ve seen me enough; complete it from home,” and as usual, he leaves. Now, it's my turn to scrutinize the image. What's wrong with it? The colors? His expression? Stepping back, he does
