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“Can’t you find someone else?” I laid the sketchbook on the floor.
“Sure, but even that would take a few days. I was hoping to finish the preliminary sketches this afternoon.”
The idea surfaced like a bottle in the ocean, a message borne from the deep.
“I could do it,” I said.
He took in my face, my posture, my folded legs, then shook his head. “Thank you, but that won’t be necessary.”
“It’s not like I don’t have experience.”
“This is different,” he said, his gaze hardening.
He was right. I’d seen the conceptual drawings in his sketchbook. This project was inherently sexual, unlike anything he’d attempted when I was younger. He was trying to turn an intimate moment inside out, to take the most private activity in which a person could partake and make it public. If I did this, I would be laying myself bare for his and everyone else’s perusal.
The thought of it scared and excited me. It made my toes curl.
“You’re letting me work in your studio and stay in this incredible apartment for free. Let me do this for you.”
“You’re here as my guest, Paige, not as a tenant. You don’t owe me rent or favors.”
“It’s not a favor.” The offer was as much for my benefit as it was for his. Maybe more so. “I want to do it.”
He stared out the window, scrubbing his jaw, his expression dubious. The chair creaked as he stood. He crossed the room and entered the walk-in supply closet, then brought out a blue terrycloth robe.
He presented the robe to me, his stare daring me to flinch.
“You can change in the bathroom.”
I took the robe and rose from the chair. I was halfway to the bathroom when I heard him say, “You don’t have to do this, Paige. I can get someone else.”
I stopped. The words resounded in my ears, deafening. He could get someone else. Anyone else. Like he had scores of hopefuls lined up around the block, desperate to model for him. Like I was replaceable.
He hadn’t meant it that way, but that’s how it felt. I draped the robe over a nearby stool. He offered a kind smile, like he’d anticipated me changing my mind. Grasping the hem of my tank top, I pulled my shirt off right there in front of him.
My father’s eyes rounded with stark surprise. I let my shirt fall, then unzipped my jeans and shucked them along with my underwear.
I stood naked before him, hips squared and shoulders pulled back to accentuate breasts that stood quite proudly on their own.
A breath fell from his lips as his gaze caressed me. My arms and legs pilled with goosebumps. The man could’ve wrapped me in burlap and it wouldn’t have made a damn difference. I was Henry Monroe’s daughter. He couldn’t replace me.
“We’re going to need black. Lots of black. Nothing that’ll take away from...” He let the sentence go unfinished as he reached into the bin overflowing with fabric and proceeded to pull out yards and yards of midnight-colored material.
Chapter Eight
I waited as he readied the scene, my nipples gathering to points in the cool air of the studio. He stripped the futon, replacing the vibrant fabrics with the ones he’d selected.
“Too much color detracts,” he said, though it wasn’t clear if he was talking to himself or to me. “We don’t need color. Just light. Lots of light.” He arranged the materials, scrunching some pieces and smoothing others. He raised the shades on two of the windows, then turned to me. “Have a seat.”
Breathing deeply to temper the nerves I didn’t want him to see, I lowered myself onto the tangle of fabric.
My father circled the futon, then stopped in front of me, tall as a mountain. He’d shifted into artist mode, his eyes tuned to the finer details, as he compared and contrasted what was in front of him with the image in his mind’s eye.
“Pull your knees to your chest,” he said, and I did. “Cross your ankles. Good. Hold them.” He swept a lock of hair behind my ear, and I fought the urge to lean into his touch like a cat. He tipped my chin upward, then down, then took a step back, arms folded.
“Lie down,” he said.
I eased back onto the futon but kept my ankles crossed. My breasts splayed to either side of my ribcage as my heart pounded against my sternum. I studied the ceiling and its highways of exposed beams and copper piping to distract myself, listening for the sound of his footsteps as he moved around the room.
