Chapter 11
SAPPHIRE
With only the occasional mumble and shuffle of dull footsteps, I’m enjoying the calm and quiet of my surroundings in a moment of deep serenity.
Every time there’s a new exhibition, I make it a point to visit the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art just to be and soak in the culture.
It’s my favorite place because it’s where my mom and dad would save up to take me as a treat when I was a little girl, and it was the highlight of my year. It still is.
As cherished memories of my past flood my mind, I examine the painting on the wall, captivated by every tiny detail.
From the delicate brush strokes forming the spiderweb-like strands of the woman’s hair in the painting to the heavier splashes of color around the edges, there’s a striking contrast between the softness of the woman’s eyes in the portrait and the darkness of the background, as if she’s stepping out of the shadows and into the light.
A stranger sidles up beside me and stands in silence, just looking. Taking in the beauty of the painting entitled Now You See Me.
A man beside me points out our similarities in a low mumble. “She looks like you.”
“That’s only because she has multicolored hair.” The interwoven pastel-shaded strands of her hair look like they are dancing in the air, as if she’s walking into the wind.
I turn to greet the man beside me and try hard not to roll my eyes as I’m met with the side profile of Eli Hart. I’m mad at myself for not recognizing his voice.
I’ve lived in San Francisco for years without ever running into Elijah Hart, and suddenly he’s everywhere.
It’s also the first Sunday I’ve had off in weeks, and if he ruins it, I might punch him in the nose.
But I won’t do that because it would mess up his handsome face, one I’ve spent too many hours imagining in my mind for too many nights.
“Are you following me?” I ask, annoyed that his grouchy ass is ruining my moment with a painting that has now become my all-time favorite.
“I had a ticket for this exhibition booked months ago. It just so happens to be for the same day you’re here.”
I believe in coincidences and that everything happens for a reason, but I really don’t want his stars to align with mine today: he can be a joy thief at times.
I can already feel my crown chakra becoming disconnected, the mental fog moving in that sends me off balance.
I hate myself for it, but I’m also secretly loving him being here too.
When he’s around, he plays havoc with my sacral chakra, which makes heat spread through the space between my navel and pelvis. I wish he didn’t have this effect on me, but it’s something I don’t seem to have any control over.
“But Endee Desree uses color, a lot of it, and you like gray,” I state a little too harshly, almost rude, the word “gray” slipping out of my mouth like it disgusts me.
He remains facing forward before finally admitting, “Endee Desree is one of my favorite artists.”
I scoff. “You like Endee Desree?” No way.
“I do.” He’s so matter-of-fact, proper, stern…
rigid. The man has excellent posture, and I hate myself for noticing that.
He’s also irritating, stone-faced, detached, yet easy on the eyes, and…
smokin’ hot. He’s a work of art himself.
“Huh.” That’s all I can think to reply, and I return my attention to the painting again.
Together, we stand, side by side, just gazing, lost in comfortable silence.
As the minutes pass, I try not to let him distract me or zone out in his presence, rubbing the rose quartz crystal in my pocket to promote inner peace and calm.
Maybe I should suggest Eli carry a sunstone to bring more light and playful energy into his world.
He needs it more than anyone I know. However, a bucket full may not cut it.
The longer I stare at the woman in the painting, the more elaborate details strike me: the way her lips are slightly parted and the reflection of a man in her pupils.
“It’s beautiful,” I whisper softly, almost afraid to ruin the moment.
“She is. And this is the quietest I’ve ever heard you, Sapphire. Are you feeling okay today?”
Damn, he’s so annoying. The way he can just burst my dreamy bubble like that is a skill all on its own.
I fold my arms across my chest, feeling defiant.
“I am fine. At least I was before you showed up.” I shoot him a sidelong glance.
“Are you sure you’re okay? That’s the longest sentence I think I’ve ever heard you say.
Grunts and one-word answers are more your thing.
” I’m asking to be fired; begging for it more like.
I hate myself for saying that, so I follow up with a quick apology.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean that.” I don’t know what happens to me when he’s around, but he turns me into someone I don’t recognize, and shakes my energy field which I both love and hate evenly.
His shoulders shake as he tries to hold in a laugh, and when our eyes collide, I’m almost knocked backward by his megawatt smile.
“You should laugh more often,” I tell him, because it’s the truth.
“Yeah?” he asks, his laugh dying off as he runs his hands through hair so thick and shiny I want to ask him what shampoo and conditioner he uses.
“It suits you.”
“Thanks.” He nods, his cheeks flushing with color.
Interesting; he’s not good at accepting compliments.
“So,” he starts and wags his finger at the numerous paintings lined along the wall. “You like Endee Desree, too?”
“I’m a big fan of his or her work.” The infamous, aloof, nobody-knows-who-they-are artist, Endee Desree, is a mystery to all. “I’ve been obsessed with their paintings for over a decade.”
“Same,” he admits gruffly.
Eli and I couldn’t be more different, yet here we are, side by side, our shared love for someone’s talent colliding over a canvas.
He studies the painting once more. “I think this one is my favorite.”
I sigh blissfully at the multicolored-haired woman who looks like she’s glowing and ethereal. “She looks like an angel. I wish it were for sale.”
“If it were, I would fight you for it.”
“The same way you fight me on everything.” That’s the truth; I’m not being rude.
“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be awkward.”
“It’s fine.”
“It’s not fine.”
Gradually, in unison, we turn to face each other, mirroring each other’s movements.
“Okay,” I finally agree. “It’s not fine.
” I don’t want to bring up work on my day off, but it’s a necessary evil we have to face, so I explain carefully, “Tomorrow, we’re visiting yet another venue to host your staff conference, Eli.
” We only have two more to visit. “The months are passing quickly, and we’ve checked out seven in the last eight weeks.
We’re almost out of options now because everything else is already booked. ”
“I didn’t like any of the venues.”
I release a breath that sounds tired and heavy. “You’re impossible to please.” One was too small, another was too far out of town, then the catering wasn’t good, or the registration area was… what was it he said? Oh, yeah, poky. “Something’s got to give, and you’re going to have to compromise.”
“Okay.”
What? No fight? Or pushback? Surely not.
“I’m certain that the hotel tomorrow will be the one.” It has to be; my patience is wearing thin, and I’m about to throw in the towel, something I’ve never done before.
“We’ll see,” he states flatly.
And we’re back to more pushbacks.
Great.
“The hotel ticks every box,” I snap back. He’s screwing with my Sunday vibe.
He nods in response before tilting his head to the side, studying me. His eyes move from me to the painting and back, slowly, deliberately, the gears of his mind working, almost calculating. “She does look like you.”
“Who looks like me?” What is he talking about now?
“The girl in the painting.”
“Oh.” Just like that, the conversation quickly shifts, smoothly handled in a way only a skilled dodger could manage. He’s a master at twisting things to his favor.
“She’s beautiful.” He takes one step toward me, before bowing his head, moving his lips to the shell of my ear, and I hold my breath for a beat. “Enjoy the exhibition. See you tomorrow, Sapphire.” His hot breath makes me shiver, and I welcome it. Savor it.
Then he’s gone, leaving me standing in the warmth and richness of his cologne.
He’s so confusing, my head is spinning from the dozens of different thoughts twisting my mind like a pretzel. I like him and I can’t help being pulled toward him. That’s the reason he’s here today, because I manifested him unconsciously. Cheers, Universe.
Like a call that needs answering, the painting beckons to me, and my eyes lock on to it like a magnet.
Eli said she looked like me.
And that she’s beautiful.
Does that mean… he thinks I’m beautiful?
No. Impossible.
Ha! As if.
He can barely tolerate being in the same room with me.
Like me?
Nope, not a chance.
Although he spends an unusually long time staring at me.
Pft. That’s just wishful thinking.
I peer over my shoulder and watch him leave, while women ogle him as he walks by, and he’s completely unaware of it.
Then I gasp when I realize he’s wearing a T-shirt in the brightest canary yellow today.
So, he doesn’t just wear monochrome colors.
Now that is interesting.