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My question is a bare whisper, seeing Vaughn look down at me with mirth in his dark eyes. “Clearly, we’re both covered in paint. My shirt is ripped open, your hair is indesperateneed of a hairbrush, and there are finger marks around your throat.”
I stand taller, owning it, and his deep chuckle of approval warms my insides as we walk toward the elevator leading upstairs.
“Don’t forget the marksIleft onyourchest.”
I arch a brow, sliding my gaze down along his exposed torso.
He barks a laugh as he takes in the sight of my nail indentations on his muscular chest before we step onto the elevator. Once inside, his gaze darkens as his eyes meet mine, and he gathers me close.
“Made me for me, little bird.” He brushes his mouth across mine. “Like I was made for you.”
CHAPTER33
WREN
A blissful week of normality has passed following our impromptu studio session, when my cell’s ringtone rips me from a deep, dreamless sleep.
I scramble for the nightstand on my side of Vaughn’s bed, where I’ve spent every night for the last three weeks, narrowly getting to it before the caller decides to hang up.
“Hello?”
My voice is breathless and sleep-addled, as my blurred vision takes in the mess around me.
We’d had Luciano’s meatball marinara subs for dinner last night, and things had gotten more than a little messy when I’d thrown a sauce-covered meatball at the back of Vaughn’s head after he’d wound me up about subtitled movies being crap.
My smile is broad, remembering the disgust on his face when he’d turned to face me, finding a second meatball hot on the heels of the first. It hit him square between the eyes, and then we descended into chaos.
A bedroom food fight that ended between the sheets.
The remnants of that fight cover the floor beneath my feet as I jump to stand when the person on the other end of the line speaks. “Good day, Miss Caputo. Harold Dickinson here, curator at—”
“The Met. Hi, yes, I know who you are. How are you, Mr. Dickinson?”
“I hope I’ve not caught you at a bad time…”
I glance around once more, idly wondering what time it is and where Vaughn has gone to before I answer. “Not at all. How may I help you?”
“Your exhibition here was a roaring success. Congratulations.”
The honest delight in his voice makes me smile as I murmur a low thanks.
“To be blunt, there has been such a demand for your work that I’m blue in the face fielding calls, and I’m hoping you might have some other pieces up your very creative sleeves. Or perhaps a timeline on when we might expect a repeat production?”
My jaw unhinges, my lips opening and closing several times before I find the words. “A repeat? As in, you want me to comeback?”
“Very much, Miss Caputo.” He chuckles softly. “You sound surprised.”
I can’t help my snort of disbelief as I shake my head in wonderment. “I—I never dreamed I would be good enough to share my hobby with another living soul…”
Tears fill my eyes before Mr. Dickinson’s sincere voice echoes in my ear. “Your talent is exceptional, Miss Caputo. Kudos to Mr. Burton for his relentless pursuit. He’s been adamant that I wouldn’t regret taking a chance on your work. And he was right.”
My heart fills to bursting as I promise to get back to the curator of The Met as soon as possible, and once I’ve hung up, I fly from the bedroom in search of the only person I want to experience my joy alongside.
The apartment is empty but for a short handwritten note on the kitchen island.
There’s a fresh platter of fruit and bagels in the pantry.
You looked too tired to wake. I’m afraid I’m running you ragged, beautiful girl.
