Chapter 11
CHAPTER ELEVEN
DAPHNE
W hen I bring my canvas to work on Monday, it’s with a light heart and a skip in my step. Not even the sight of it perched beside the other illustrators’ work in the studio can break my confidence. This time I know it’s ready. I am, however, surprised at how quickly I get my supervisor’s approval. The art director barely glances at it before she deems it ready for the painting stage, which makes me wonder if she’d have approved weasel-man after all. But just before she’s about to leave the studio, she casts a thoughtful look at my sketch and adds that she’s particularly impressed with the hero’s lustful expression.
That of course reminds me of what happened to encourage said expression on Monty’s face.
My cheeks flush at the memory as I make my way from the studio to the editorial floor. I was so wrapped up in the excitement of my art, the comfort of working in my own home, that I didn’t register the weight of our interaction until after he left my apartment Saturday afternoon. Only then did I realize I’d finished my sketch and bid him farewell in nothing but my bralette. No wonder he struggled to fully look at me.
Aside from that one time, that is.
When his hand stilled mine, his chest heaving, eyes heavy.
I’d told him to pretend I was someone else. That my breasts belonged to someone he liked.
He was merely obeying my directive, wasn’t he?
I reach my desk and slap my hands to my burning cheeks to distract myself from the strange flutter in my stomach. One that might be embarrassment or…who really knows? Whatever the case, my arrangement with Monty is already proving fruitful.
Though, as I settle into my seat, I can’t help wishing Araminta were here. Which is ludicrous because why would I want her verbally tearing apart my perfect sketch? I suppose the challenge of earning even the slightest hint of her praise would feel more fulfilling than my supervisor’s too-fast approval.
A flicker of worry settles in my gut. I haven’t seen Araminta since the boxing match when she left with that man named David. If he hurt her in any way?—
I bite back a yelp as I open my desk drawer to find a small body lying motionless on my stationery. My heart climbs into my throat until I note the slightest flutter of paper wings, the steady rise and fall of the creature’s chest.
“There you are,” I say, nudging Araminta in the leg with my forefinger. The rhythmic noise of my coworkers going about their own duties keeps my voice from carrying too far. Not that it matters. With the paper pixie infestation growing so rapidly, chatter has increased in tandem. Still, I’d rather not draw much attention to myself, so I keep my voice low. “Get off my stationery. I have several letters to pen this morning.”
Araminta raises her arms in a sleepy stretch and blinks her parchment lashes. “Morning already? I wanted to sleep in longer. I’ve never been so tired in my life.”
An echo of the worry I felt earlier returns. She’s normally bright-eyed and ready to annoy me first thing every workday. “Why are you so fatigued? What did you do all weekend?”
She smirks up at me. “Wouldn’t you like to know. Let’s just say David is a very patient lover with the stamina of a kelpie.”
“Ew. I don’t need to know that.”
“Perhaps if you did know—from personal experience—you wouldn’t struggle with your sexy art so much.”
I lift my chin. “I’ll have you know I finished my sketch to perfection.”
Her eyes go wide as she sits up straighter. “You did? How? Did you find a husband or murder birds, or whatever it is you were planning on doing?”
“I’ll tell you all about it if you get off my damn stationery.”
Araminta eats up my every word as I describe my bargain with Monty. I leave out certain details of our first modeling session, particularly the part where I took off my shirt and forgot about it. My stomach churns as she flies off to study my sketch for herself, but when she returns she only says, “Not bad.”
That’s quite the endorsement as far as Araminta goes.
“So when is your first sex lesson?” she asks, lying on her belly at the edge of my desk and kicking her legs against its polished mahogany surface.
Alarm ripples through my chest at her words, nearly causing my pen to slip from my fingers. I cast a glance at my nearest coworkers, but no one seems to have heard her.
“Courtship lesson,” I whisper, dipping the golden nib of my pen into my pot of rich black ink. Writing may not be as fulfilling as painting, but I still treat the act with reverence. I return to the sentence I was in the midst of writing, a response to a promising query Fletcher-Wilson received a few weeks back. “Courtship. Not sex.”
“But you could use the sex, couldn’t you? How long has it been, anyway?”
I purse my lips, refusing to answer. While I enjoy sexual pleasure, and it has been quite some time since I’ve had a partner, I’ve yet to find someone I actually want to have sex with. Someone who makes me feel desire for them and not just the fantastic sensations this seelie body is capable of generating.
“I see you’re ignoring my question,” Araminta says. “Fine, I’ll return to my previous one. When is your first courtship lesson?”
I finish penning my sentence. “This Saturday. We’re demonstrating what Monty considers his most important principle, which is attending social functions where I can meet marriage material.”
“That’s hardly novel,” Araminta says. “Though for you, I suppose socializing is a shocking concept. Where will you go?”
“He hasn’t told me yet.” My insides writhe with nerves. “I hate not knowing. I hate even more that I don’t know who I’ll meet or how I’ll meet them. I wish we could orchestrate a chance meeting with a potential partner ahead of time.”
Araminta snorts a laugh. “Do you even hear yourself? You can’t orchestrate a chance encounter . It’s either chance or it’s orchestrated.”
“I know that,” I mutter, lowering my head to finish my correspondence.
“How have you met previous lovers?”
“Work, mostly,” I say with a shrug.
Araminta taps her chin with a tiny forefinger, a conspiratorial look on her face. “On second thought, I like your idea.”
“What idea?”
She rises to her feet and tiptoes across the edge of my desk, balancing along the woodgrain like it’s a tightrope. “Here’s the thing. I need to get some of David’s attention off of me. He’s so clingy.”
“Didn’t you praise his skills as an expert lover?”
“He may be an expert lover but he is far too obsessed with me. He wants me to meet his friends this weekend as if I don’t have a plethora of other things I’d rather do.”
I arch a brow. “Like what?”
She turns to me with an innocent look. “Like spending time with you, bestie. So, what do you say we help each other? Once you know where your lesson will be held, tell me and I’ll orchestrate this meeting with David’s friends at the same place. You can practice your courtship lesson with one of these friends so that I don’t have to pretend to be interested.”
“So devious,” I say with a shake of my head. Her proposal doesn’t benefit me much, considering I’ll still be meeting a stranger. Multiple strangers, if David intends on introducing Araminta to multiple friends. Yet I do feel some comfort in the predictability of our plan. I’ll have one less surprise to worry about. I’ll have some strategy to ponder ahead of time to ensure I’m armed with relevant small talk.
“What do you say? Is it a great idea?”
“Fine,” I say with a sigh. “We’ll…help each other.”
“Great! How about another favor? Can I live at your place? Now that I know how amazing money is, I need a job and a place to live?—”
“No.”
Her lips pull into a pout as she sinks down onto my desk, shoulders hunched. “Will you pay me as your assistant, then? We can do a fifty-fifty split of your earnings.”
I eye her with a stern look. “If you want a job at Fletcher-Wilson, you’ll apply like everyone else and probably start off as an intern.”
She wrinkles her nose in distaste. “I think I’d prefer something more glamorous.” With that, she flutters off, leaving me to finish my work in peace.