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appear to be a little grim. The palette is a little dull. Still—
“Can’t he give me some sort of feedback?” A scoff escapes my lips. Packing up, I take in the cold, dark, minimalist conference room. That is the last time I will ever be in there again. Avi leads me to the front, ensuring I march out one of the multiple double doors and drive home. A twinge of disappointment strikes, knowing I won't return to observe Blackburn's arrogant face. It seems he might be right. Enough of him has crossed my view.
I open a new canvas and set it up on my easel. Blank. With his image fresh in my mind, I throw open my curtains and grab my pencil to sketch the wealthy CEO.
Chapter two
Invasion of Spaces
Aweekwentby,and I am quite pleased with my progress. Using photographs and memory as reference, I brightened Blackburn’s expression with a subtle upcurve of the corner of his lips. I chose a scarlet red background to make his inky suit stand out and complement his complexion. The determined posture I crafted for him appeals to me more than the rigid one I mimicked. There is still a lot of work to do, but even with my other projects, I buckle down and get closer to finishing his depiction than I thought I would.
It is already late in the afternoon. I rest my eyes until they shoot open. Heavy knocks rap at my shaking, thin door. Sitting up, I find myself immobilized. Who on Earth is that?
Did he find me?
The knocking returns.
“It’s Evan Blackburn,” I hear the CEO’s voice from outside. My shoulders relax. Oh, it’shim. Wait, what ishedoing here? I open the door.
“Hello, sorry to keep you waiting,” I smile. Blackburn peers inside.
“No worries, I see you had to travel quite a distance,” his words are sarcastic. Brushing past me, he enters my humble abode, which is the size of his powder room.
“Come in,” I mutter, closing the door. Uncertain of how to occupy myself, I shuffle my feet and absentmindedly check for messages that haven't arrived yet while he surveys my rickety residence. His silent judgment becomes unbearable for me.
"Excuse me, but why are you here?”
“Checking in,” he retorts. We fall back into silence. Fidgeting with my fingers, I ponder my next words. This ismyhome, and still, beads of sweat are forming on my forehead thinking about talking to him. My messy bed loses his interest, and he turns his attention to my more unkempt workspace, littered with art supplies and covered with flecks of paint. He notices his image.
Blackburn approaches the piece. Eyes are narrowed, and lips are pulled into a tight line.
“Uh, yeah, it’s not finished, but it should be done soon,” I ramble, wishing I would’ve shut up. He studies himself for much more than I am comfortable with. Mistakes become glaringly obvious to me as he hums in thought.
“It’s better,” he affirms. My throat tightens, but I manage to swallow hard, preventing an embarrassing coughing fit from taking hold.
“Much obliged,” I acknowledge.
“One more thing,” he asserts. “You’re moving.”
“Excuse me?” While I don't intend to be confrontational, a snappy response escapes my lips in reaction to his absurd command.
Blackburn raises an eyebrow, “Do you always need help understanding simple sentences?” he interrogates.
“The words you spoke didn't go unnoticed,” I remark. “Perhaps I should have expressed myself more explicitly. Staying put is my choice." Evan stills, saying nothing as I try to maintain his gaze. He probably still detects the anxiety in my eyes.
“Cute,” he expresses, crumbling my stubborn guise, “But you are moving. You have an interview scheduled; everyone wants to know the‘mystery artist’painting my timeless piece, and I don’t want this rat cage associated with me in any way,” Blackburn drawls. It's embarrassing and insulting. While it's not a complete shock, my concerns go far beyond this.
“An interview? As mentioned, maintaining anonymity is my priority."
“Well, we can’t all get what we want. My realtor will contact you soon; you’ll only speak with her when she requests information. Otherwise, I’ll handle it.” Blackburn is out the door in three strides.
“Wait! You don’t understand; I can’t do this interview,” I clarify. My desperation is beginning to show. He half-turns only enough to be able to glower at me over his shoulder. His blue eyes are
like the darkened depths of the ocean under the shadow of his scowl.
“Any artist in your position would be killing to showcase their art on television. Exploring the nearby area might lead me to another artist who's just as inept as you. Would you like me to do that?” He was more likable when he was silent. Shaking my head, a wave of embarrassment washes over me, resembling a child held accountable by a disapproving mother. “I’ll pick up the painting on Monday.” Blackburn slams my door shut.
“No regard for anyone but himself,” I grit my teeth. Since I'm already up and my nerves are on edge, a shower seems like a reasonable option. Throwing my clothes onto the yellowed tile floor, I allow the water to drizzle over me. The interview is something I cannot do. There is no way to worm my way out of it without looking like a complete idiot and losing a paycheck.
