16. Another Naked Woman
Chapter 16
Another Naked Woman
Bonnie
I spend most days with my head hovering over my tablet.
Sketch, ink, erase, delete.
Color, finish, save, add to portfolio, open a new file.
Over and over and over.
I haven’t been this fueled since high school.
When the Howling Ravens — well, their manager, but, hey, a girl can dream that the Leo Tomb talked to me—sent out a notice that I’d moved on to the next round, it felt surreal. It felt like me .
Creating art from your soul is like a heavy drug. It’s an addiction to bare your heart and have it cupped in the warm hands of someone you admire.
“Sun’s down again,” Rafe’s low voice says.
My head jerks up. The window outside the shop is blank; there’s only my reflection staring back. I’ve seen her eyes too often lately, lined with dark circles and messy hair—the product of putting in a ponytail, then having it fall out again. In front of me, faced away from the window, Rafe raps his knuckles on the counter. His back is in the window’s reflection with a winding mural of tattoos covering the back of his arms.
“Shiv?”
I tear my gaze from Window Rafe to Reality Rafe. He’s more beautiful anyway.
His lips tip into a half smile. “Lost track of time?”
I blow out a breath, sending my strands of hair rushing up, then floating back down.
“I just wanna finish this one thing,” I say.
“At eight o’clock on a Thursday?”
My eyes widen. “Wait, eight o’clock?”
I twist my wrist to check the time. We closed the store one hour ago. I glance around at the tidied store, suddenly quieter than it was the last time I looked up.
“I didn’t want to break your flow,” he says.
“I’m so sorry.” I close my tablet’s cover flap. “Overstayed again. I didn’t even help close.”
He blows out a breath. “Your job isn’t to be my maid. It’s for you to learn. And, as far as I can tell, you’re doing that.”
I’m more than learning. I’m working in an environment that feels like art school and doesn’t at the same time. It’s the joy of disappearing into work without the judgments of an early morning critique. It’s being creative without fitting in the boundaries of what professors need me to do.
It’s spending time with Rafe.
We don’t talk as much as we did my first couple of weeks working here, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t watch him waltz from customer to customer, making sale after sale. He doesn’t need to say much; his art—his confident actions—speak for themselves.
“Then, I’ll get out of your hair,” I say, quickly striding to Rafe’s office.
I don’t like staying too late if I can help it. After our conversation on the stairs, I’ve remained absolutely mortified. I know I’ll put my foot in my mouth if we’re alone again. I am, apparently, incapable of being chill about our one-night stand. I have to bring it up. I can’t control myself, transforming into some blabbering lovesick schoolgirl every single time we’re in an echoing empty room together.
But honestly, I really want to discuss that night. I can feel the itch buried in the marrow of my bones, needing to be excavated. I want to be told here’s what happened, here’s how I feel about it, and here’s why it will never happen again . I need to know it’s fine if I move on. But mostly, I need to shake myself from Lulu’s words—the suggestion that maybe Rafe could teach me so much more than he did the night of Night Crawl.
The whole concept of him teaching me about sex is ridiculous. It feels plucked from fantasy. It’s a myth you hear about from a friend of a friend of a friend.
Well, Erin said that Angie told her that Rebecca heard Elizabeth was taught about sex from that one guy, and they did it like rabbits, and now they’re married.
Those types of things don’t happen. Asking for sex lessons doesn’t happen.
I stuff my leather backpack with my tablet and toss the pencil into the array of old receipts, gum wrappers, and loose change.
“Have somewhere to be?” Rafe asks.
I put my bag’s strap over my shoulder. “Nope. Just a date with peanut butter and jelly.”
It sounds like a joke, but it’s not. I have every intention of meeting Lulu in her bedroom, interrupting her study time for a little bit, then disappearing into my art shed with a folded sandwich between my lips and a tablet stylus behind my ear, as usual. Probably drawing Rafe from memory, if I’m being honest.
“How often do you do that?” he asks.
Draw you? Too often.
“It’s dinner,” I explain with a laugh.
He doesn’t laugh back. “PB it’s undivided attention people would pay good money for. At least, I would.
“It doesn’t bother me that you’re much younger. But that’s because I have no reason for it to.”
Right.
Why would age matter in our situation? He’s simply my boss. Well, my boss making me dinner, but I guess we’re just overlooking that detail. I’m realizing Rafe likes to ignore these obvious contradictions. I’m his intern, yet he lets me stay past closing time. I’m just his employee, but he invites me up to dinner. More than most, Rafe’s actions speak much louder than his words. I wonder if he’s aware of that.
“So, hometown?” I press on.
“Mourning.”
“That’s only two stops away.”
“Wanted to stay a little close to home.”
“Why? Parents?”
“Just Mom,” he corrects.
“And your dad?” I ask.
“That one”—he takes out a spoon and gestures to me with the curved end—“I don’t even discuss with Izzy or Leo.”
“Why not?”
“Didn’t I just say I don’t discuss it?” he says, squinting.
But he doesn’t seem too bothered, and I’m feeling a little feisty now that I’m settling in. I hop onto the stool.
“Is he a dick?” I ask.
Rafe laughs, and his eyes widen, as if the sound even surprised him.
“Yeah. You could say he’s a grade-A bastard,” he answers.
“And?”
“And that’s it.”
Fine. I’ll take what I can get.
“So,” I say, taking a sip of my water, “how do you know Leo …”
“Tonelli,” he finishes for me.
I laugh. “You’re right; it doesn’t have that rock-star ring anymore, does it?”
“Ruin the fantasy for ya?”
“No,” I answer. “I don’t have fantasies about Leo.” Only about you . “I just like when people seem a bit more human,” I continue. “With a last name like Tonelli, now I picture some kid who wanted to be something big and made it. That’s amazing, isn’t it?”
Rafe leans one hip on the counter, staring at me, beautifully brown eyes darting between mine. “You really see people, don’t you?”
I straighten my posture, fiddling with my fingernail polish, chipping off some of the black.
“What do you mean?”
“You see something in people. Their hopes and dreams. You see them as individuals.”
“I collect souls, remember?” I joke.
He laughs and shakes his head. “Nah, you act like they’re special.”
“Are you saying Leo isn’t special?” I tease.
“Oh, he sure thinks he is.”
I stay quiet, and after a moment, he takes it as a cue to keep talking.
“He, uh … he was my best friend, growing up. We lived in the same apartment complex as kids, and eventually, his parents moved to a house in a neighborhood down the street. We hung out in that garage a lot.”
“Get into trouble there?” I ask.
“Smoked a lot of cigarettes there.”
“You started smoking that young?”
“What else is there to do at that age?” he says with a smile. “We couldn’t exactly afford a computer.”
I blink at his admission, and as if he realizes the same thing, his smile falls, and he goes back to cooking. The sizzles of the frying pan pop through the studio. Rafe taps the switch over the stovetop to start the fan. The low hum cuts the awkward silence.
“Plus, I didn’t want to bother my mom,” he finishes.
“Did she work a lot?”
“Yes.”
I wait for him to continue, but he gets quiet after that. I wait long enough that it would be weird to question further, so I don’t.
Rafe keeps prepping food, and the loft starts to fill with the smell of garlic and onion. It smells like my dad’s cooking. It’s warm, like home. I revel in the quiet though. Despite his studio smelling the same, it’s different from my parents’ house. It’s so … peaceful. It’s how I feel while I’m painting alone in my shed. A happy place. A relief.
“Mind opening that window?” he asks, nodding toward the one over the sink. His hands are full with the pan handle and spatula.
I jump up, sliding past him in the tight space— cedar, cedar, cedar —and lean over the sink to unlatch and lift the window. When I fall back to my heels, I catch him quickly look away from my ass.
Swallowing, I peruse the studio again, waltzing over to the windows that overlook Main Street below. The glass is fogged. A small film of salt litters the corners of each windowpane. Probably a result from being so close to the sea.
Along the wall are rows of drawers. They look similar to the ones at art school, big enough for newsprint and other canvases. I slowly slide one out.
“Nosy,” Rafe calls over to me.
I startle and turn on my heel to see him smirking.
“Keep snooping then. You’re going to anyway.”
“You’re starting to know me too well,” I say over the hum of the stove fan.
“Starting to,” he says.
I turn back to the drawer, finally pulling it out all the way with shaking hands. My heart freezes.
Looking back is another faceless, naked woman. Another figure study. Her body is stunning. It’s not made for magazines, but bodies that are fun to draw rarely are. The average person discounts just how beautiful curves can feel under the long stroke of a pencil. Sometimes, I wonder if admiring curves is a secret us artists keep for ourselves. I wish we wouldn’t.
I look down at my own figure. Short. Knobby knees. My chest isn’t big enough for anyone to enjoy drawing, and my fingers are long enough that even the best illustrator would struggle to make them look pretty. And don’t even get me started on my freckles.
“Somehow, I knew you’d find those,” Rafe says from behind me.
He holds out a bowl with a fork dipped in the pad of rice below. I take it from him, cupping both hands on the base. The bowl is made of glazed clay, and it’s thick enough so only a little heat seeps through the bottom.
“I like your figure drawings,” I say. “They’re good. I could never.”
Rafe forks some rice and chicken in his mouth and walks down to the opposite end of the steel drawers, tugging open another. I follow and stare down at the rough charcoal strokes on coarse off-white newsprint. It’s messy. Barely decipherable. But beneath the erased and redrawn lines and black smears is another naked figure.
“Practice makes perfect,” he says. “Most of my drawings look like this. You only see the finished stuff, and you’re comparing yourself to that.”
He looks out the window to Main, rubbing the outside of his fist against the window to clear the condensation. Shops are closed. Some streetlamps shine through, but it’s mostly the moon overhead. I have no clue what time it is. I don’t want to know.
“I was never good at anatomy,” I admit. “I had one semester of figure drawing, and I couldn’t stop giggling during the first class.”
He grins. “That checks out.”
I flush red. I just told on myself. I’m too predictable. Too embarrassed by the naked form.
I take a bite of the chicken to distract myself, but immediately hum because, “Oh shit, this is good, Rafe.”
He shrugs. “It’s sure not peanut butter.”
I fan my elbow out to poke his stomach. He smiles, walking over to the packed bookshelf close to the red door.
“I’ve got some books on anatomy if you want some references.” His finger traces over the spines. “There’s more at the library, but I can loan a couple.”
He takes one at a time, forming a small stack of books on the steel bench beside the door.
Rafe is determined, lost in his own world of books and art. My chest tightens at how we’re existing together so casually, like this isn’t the first or the last time we’ll eat together. And it’s so comfortable, so right, that I can feel the itch again. The need to?—
“Can I ask something super embarrassing?” I blurt out.
“Shoot,” he says.
“Was it … bad?”
He freezes mid–book grab, sliding it back into its place on the shelf. “Pardon?”
“The … sex,” I clarify awkwardly.
“Oh, Shiv,” he says on an exhale, tilting his head to the side. It’s pitying. The look of a parent admiring their child for asking a simple question.
I’m not a child.
I clench my jaw. “Okay, you don’t need to be so?—”
“You were absolutely lovely,” he says.
I blink, my chest rocking under his words. A slow smile grows. “Really?”
He gives a playful smile. “Well, once you relaxed.”
I whine toward the ceiling, and he laughs.
“I’m so embarrassed by that. I am so sorry.”
“You’ll learn more as time goes on,” Rafe says. “I’m only your first. There will be better men.”
I laugh. “Well, I didn’t mind you being my teacher.”
The air is sucked from the room.
Rafe opens his mouth, then closes it again. He runs his tongue over his teeth and looks away. “Art and design are the only lessons I’ll be teaching, all right?”
“I’m only joking,” I say breathlessly, but somehow, the magic of our banter seems to have disappeared into pixie dust.
Maybe Lulu was right. She normally is. I need to move on from Rafe. He’s giving me the perfect opportunity to keep this professional, and I’d be remiss not to take it. But I’m here with Rafe . Is it smarter to let this go? Or will this be the only time I can ask again?
“Why’d you invite me to dinner?” I blurt out.
“Shiv …” It’s another warning I don’t heed.
“Why?” I insist.
He tongues his cheek and looks away. “Because PB&J isn’t a meal. Because … I want to make sure you’re taken care of.”
Nerves shoot through me.
The ever-familiar spark.
“You’re not my brother,” falls out of my mouth.
His eyes jerk back to mine. “No, but you’re a good girl, Bonnie. A really good girl. And you deserve good things.”
My cheeks instantly heat, and waves of warmth spread through my body, seeping into every limb and distant finger. My knuckles whiten as I hold the bowl close to my chest.
“Okay …” I whisper out. “So, you make me dinner?”
Rafe sighs. “I don’t know. I …” He places his bowl on a spare space on the bookshelf. “I’m still trying to navigate whatever this is.”
Whatever this is …
I can’t pinpoint exactly when it happens, but what was once a relaxing room is now stuffy, stifling my breath with each inhalation.
“A mentorship?” I clarify. And again, ridiculously.
“Yes.” Rafe exhales again. “But …”
But?
He chuckles. “Let’s just say I’ve felt a bit guilty for what we … were … are … have been for a few weeks now.”
“Is it because I keep bringing up sex?”
“ Christ , Bon,” he hisses out. His fist clenches beside him.
I set my bowl down on a metal stool streaked with dry paint.
“I’m sorry. I just?—”
“Yes. It’s exactly because you keep bringing it up.”
Neither of us moves. We have a standoff across the loft from each other with both our mouths occasionally opening to talk, only to close once more. We’re both at a loss for words for once.
He closes his eyes in concentration. “I don’t … I don’t like how that night went down. I wish you’d told me you were a virgin.” His eyes snap open right as I’m about to interrupt. “And not because I regret it. I don’t. I just … what if I’d been a different man? A more insistent one who didn’t pay attention? Bon, you’ve got to speak up for yourself next time.”
“With you?” slips out before I can stop it. The itch, the want, the need for clarification.
His eyes widen. “With anyone.”
I shrug. “I thought I said a good bit that night. I told you what felt good.”
“Eventually. But …” He takes steps closer to me. “Just like with your art, you’re scared. Scared of asking for something. For doing something for you . You need to know you can be free with yourself. Free around others without worrying what they’ll?—”
“Then, teach me.”
My words halt us again. It’s bold. It’s borderline rude. But I don’t regret it.
He almost looks angry this time. “Shiv?—”
I walk closer, and it halts his sentence. He tenses with each step I take, but he doesn’t move an inch.
“If you’re so worried about it,” I say, “then tell me how to tell someone what I want. Tell me how to be … intimate.”
It’s almost a clinical word, but it’s the only one I can find.
Rafe’s jaw tightens as he slowly shakes his head side to side. “That’s not … we can’t … I can’t …”
When I’m one foot away, I pause. Those hooded brown eyes pierce through me like a palette knife, mixing and swirling and creating new, colorful feelings in my stomach. He exhales shakily.
“I want to learn,” I whisper.
His nostrils flare in frustration. His jaw tics. He keeps staring, eyes darting between mine.
“It’s irresponsible for me to?—”
“Then, I won’t tell.”
He huffs out a breath. “Shiv …”
“Rafe.” I lick my bottom lip and sigh. “Please.”
He exhales, tonguing his cheek, looking out the window and shaking his head. He’s thinking, thinking, thinking …
He swallows. “If we do this?—”
My eyes widen as my body erupts in heat, pulsing hard and making my knees shake.
“ If we do this,” he repeats slower, “then that’s all it is.”
“Okay.”
“Nothing more.”
“Okay.”
“Are there any … rules you wanna follow?” he asks. “Boundaries?”
“You say it like you’ve done this before,” I tease.
He huffs out a small rush of air through his nose. It might be a laugh. “Trust me, I’ve never done this before.”
I can’t look into that or else I’m going to suffocate under this. I know I will.
No. I’m better than that.
“No boundaries,” I answer.
He lifts an eyebrow. “I don’t believe you. We’ll circle back to that. Any rules?”
I don’t want to seem irresponsible, so I tip my chin up. “We shouldn’t tell anyone in town.”
“Obviously,” he says. “Definitely no flirting in the shop.”
“Obviously,” I echo back.
“Well, do you have any of your own rules?” I ask.
His jaw tightens, and he nods. “Only that you’re honest with me. Always. No little white lies. No half-truths. Can you promise me that?”
Yes , lingers on my tongue. Yes, yes, yes.
But … what if he asks about how long I’ve liked him? What if I can’t handle it? What then?
Then, I stiffen in defiance because of the what-ifs.
What does it matter? I’m an adult. Things happen. Rough situations happen . At least if I regret this, it will have been because of my own decision in a controlled environment. He was right. This is a learning experience.
I nod. “Yes. Promise.”
He returns the gesture. “Okay. Good.”
“Good.”
And slowly, we exchange smiles for the first time in a few minutes. It feels nice. Almost natural.
“So,” he starts, closing the gap between us, “first question: what do you want to know?”
My heart pounds. The world feels so open right now. So free.
No white lies.
No half-truths.
Just Rafe looking down at me, lips parted, hooded eyes taking me in with the murals of tattoos snaking down his neck and under his shirt. The warmth of his chest nearly touching mine. The scent of cedar.
I swallow. “I want to know everything .”