Chapter 24 – Maura
MAURA
The sunrise blazes through my bedroom windows, demanding that I get out of bed. I cover my face with my arm, pretending I don’t see it.
I was in the studio late last night, working on the giant canvas that’s going to be the centerpiece of my show.
At first, I envisioned it as a larger, more intense version of the thunderstorm painting that caught Sydney’s eye in the first place.
The longer I spent painting it, though, the more I realized it needed to be something more complex.
A painting that didn’t just catch your attention, but kept it.
“Enough,” I groan at the sun. “I’m awake. Just go away.”
When it doesn’t, I drag myself back out of bed and back to the studio.
My eye starts twitching the second I look at the painting. The color is way too flat in the middle, with none of the fluid, looming curves a real cloud would have. Even though my painting is abstract, I’m still trying to evoke a cloud’s shape.
I grab my headphones off the table where I left them and turn on some mood music. Then I grab a brush and get to work.
The sun interrupts me again around lunchtime, this time by disappearing behind the clouds and casting my studio in shadow.
“Where was this energy this morning?” I grumble at it.
My stomach echoes me, growling loud enough that I can hear it over the music blasting on my headphones. Apparently, I missed breakfast, possibly lunch, too.
I reach for my phone, and I gasp when I see the time.
I completely missed my medication alarm.
Shit. Dropping the phone, I rush to the bathroom, pull open the drawer and pop open my pillbox.
Since I’d have to go all the way to the kitchen to get a glass of water, I dry swallow them, wincing as the bigger pills make their way over the lump in my throat.
“Stupid,” I mutter. “Stupid, stupid, stupid.”
If I’d missed these meds, my blood pressure could have spiked.
Even if I magically avoided a trip to Dr. Markovic for a checkup, I’d still lose a full day of work, when the show happens in a week.
I lean back against the sink and force myself to count through four deep breaths.
My lungs fill and expand, then release. I let my breath out in a whoosh, both because it’s supposed to relax me, and because I want to drown out the blood pounding in my head.
My goddamn heart. Always demanding my attention, refusing to just beat along like a normal person’s.
No. Now’s not the time for me to start wallowing in self-pity. There’s too much to get done with this centerpiece painting. I force myself back to the studio, where the alarm on my phone is still chiming. When I pick it up, there’s a missed text from my husband.
James
You skipped breakfast.
Eat.
I roll my eyes. Since when has James decided he’s in charge of my nutrient intake? Besides, he’s been at work all day. Even if he missed me at breakfast, he has no idea whether I had a nice, balanced lunch. I shoot back a reply.
Maura
I did.
James
Liar.
Maura
?? Do you have cameras in here?
James
Don’t need them. You’re a terrible liar.
Maura
How can I be a bad liar over text?
James
Eat.
Maura
I will.
James
Now.
Or I’ll call you every five minutes until you do.
Ugh. I don’t doubt that he’ll do it, too.
Follow-through is one of his biggest strengths, right after schedule-following and bossing me around.
The canvas leaning against the wall is calling for me to pick up a brush, because there’s a stray stroke of white paint somewhere it shouldn’t be.
I don’t want to waste time making up a sandwich in the kitchen.
I grab a granola bar from a box I left on a table. Holding it up to my face, I stick out my tongue and send James a selfie.
Maura
Happy?
James
That's not food.
Maura
The inhabitants of Nature Valley would beg to differ.
James
The Nature Valley residents are all three feet tall with brittle bones and scurvy. They're not exactly thriving.
Maura
Bold words from a man who eats the same salad every day.
James
My salad has nutrients. Your granola bar has lies and oat dust.
Maura
I'm framing this conversation as proof that you DO have a personality.
James
Eat a real lunch, Maura.
Maura
Get back to your meetings, James.
James
I can do both. I'm excellent at multitasking.
Maura
Goodbye, husband.
I put my phone on silent and unwrap my granola bar before I get back to work.
Whatever contractor advised James on my studio lights is a genius.
Not only can I use the dimmer to adjust the brightness up and down, but I'm able to make the lights warmer or cooler, so I can imitate the conditions in the gallery.
As I stare at the newest layer on my painting, I'm seeing it exactly as it will look in the Whitmer.
It’s exactly what I envisioned.
The light ripples across thousands of tiny mica shards, making it seem like the clouds are moving across the canvas.
The paint is heavier and darker at the bottom, giving the impression that rain is just about to fall.
In a tiny line across the top left, I've carefully used crushed diamonds to add a silvery edge—a hopeful light. You can only see it if you stand at the right angle, which means viewers will have to look closely to discover the painting’s depths.
It's mysterious and layered. It's exactly what I needed to be a large feature piece of the entire show.
I know that tomorrow, I'll see all the errors I’m missing now.
There will be a hundred things I'm desperate to change.
But for now, I'm full of a bone-deep satisfaction that makes all the aches and pains in my body disappear.
I take a step back, wiping the back of my hand across my forehead.
“You're shaking.”
A low, gravity voice rumbles from behind me. James. It takes me a second to realize that he's right. My hands and arms are trembling, and my stomach chooses that exact moment to growl.
I turn around sheepishly. “I swear I ate.”
James’s full lips tighten. “When?”
“When I texted you.”
“Maura, that was hours ago.”
Shit. I pull my phone out of my pocket and check the time. It's almost ten, which means I blew through lunch and dinner.
James jerks his head toward the door. “Come.”
I follow him down the stairs to the kitchen, where I spot three large takeout bags on the counter. The salty scent of lo mein and sesame chicken meets my nose, and the groan I let out is indecent.
“How did you know?” I sigh, rushing forward to open the bags. “Exactly what I wanted.”
“Lucky guess.” He pulls plates from the cabinet. “You mentioned once that you crave lo mein when you're stressed.”
I pause with a container in my hand. “I said that?”
“Three weeks ago. You were complaining about your father's assistant calling about some gala.”
“You remembered that?”
“I remember most things.” He says it like it's nothing, like everyone memorizes offhand comments their contract wife makes about takeout preferences.
“The better question is, how did I find room on the counter to put it down?” There’s no heat in the words, even though he’d have every right to be annoyed. The kitchen island and counters are littered with loose sketches and half-drunk cups of tea, the remnants of my day of work.
“Sorry. I’ll clean it up,” I promise.
“Eat first. Clean later.” He crosses his arms and scowls, the picture of sternness.
Grabbing a plate from the cabinet, I load up on egg rolls, fried rice, and sweet and sour pork until I’ve got a teetering mountain of deliciousness ready for me. By the time I’m done, James has cleared off just enough space for the two of us to sit at the counter.
He raises a brow at my plate. “Did you leave any for me?”
I pretend to think. “There might be one egg roll left in the box?”
“Careful, Maura.” He leans forward, his eyes hooded as he whispers into my ear, “If I get too hungry, who knows what I'll eat?”
Goosebumps rise on my arms and legs. There are no purple slots in James’s schedule today, but he rarely gets this close to me unless sex is a possibility.
Suddenly, I’m tempted to forget about my takeout.
James pulls away before I can get any more ideas. “Eat,” he orders again. My thighs squeeze together, heat growing in my belly. Apparently, his sternness does it for me.
I take a seat at the counter and shove a fork full of lo mein into my mouth. My body rejoices at the salty, carby deliciousness. All thoughts of purple scheduled sex get pushed to the back of my mind in favor of dinner.
Half of my food has vanished by the time James sits next to me, his plate piled just as high as mine.
“You really need that many calories to fuel twelve hours of sitting at a desk?” I laugh.
He shoots me a look that says be serious. “You know I don't look like this from sitting at a desk all day.”
My eyes flicker down to his torso, even though his hard muscles are hidden by his tailored suit.
I quickly take a bite of fried rice before I can say anything inappropriate.
James and I are friends. That’s what we agreed on—hell, it’s what I asked him for.
Sure, I gave him the green flag to ask me if he wanted sex.
I just never counted on asking him to return the favor.
I really shouldn’t. We’ve just reached a comfortable equilibrium living together, and asking for unscheduled sex is just going to muddy the waters. Better to just bring out my vibrator once I go to bed if I’m still feeling the urge.
“You're staring at me,” James says without looking up from his lo mein.
“I'm not staring. I'm observing.”
“There's a difference?”
“Staring implies I have no purpose. Observing implies I'm gathering data.”
He finally looks up, one eyebrow raised. “Data about what?”
“You.” I take a sip of my water. “I'm trying to figure out what you look like when you're relaxed.”
“I look like this.”
“You look constipated.”
“That's my relaxed face.”
“James.” I set down my fork. “That's genuinely concerning.”
“My face has limited range. And yet here you are, studying my face over takeout.”
I flush slightly. “Observing. Not studying.”
“Ah. My mistake.” He returns to his food, but I catch the slight twitch at the corner of his mouth.
When I reach for my glass of water, my shoulder twinges uncomfortably. Now that I’m fed, my body wants to remind me of all the other ways I’ve been mistreating it. I rub the knotted muscle with my hand.
“Something wrong?” James asks, frowning.
“My shoulder’s just a little sore. My posture’s been pretty bad in the studio.”
I wonder for a moment if he's going to lecture me about standing up straight, like he lectured me about eating. Instead, he puts down his fork and gets up from his stool. He shifts to stand behind me, and my breath catches. I’m all too aware of his large body behind me.
His hands come to my shoulders. Each of his palms is so wide, they practically span my entire back. His fingers gently massage the top of my shoulders while his thumbs dig into the knots lower down on my back. It’s just the right amount of pressure, and my tight back muscles sing with relief.
“How’s the pressure?” he asks, and I can practically feel the vibration of his voice through my body.
“Perfect,” I moan. “Oh my god, it’s just what I needed. Where did you learn how to do this?”
Please don’t say an ex-girlfriend.
Not that I have the right to be jealous or anything.
James grunts. “My old personal trainer.”
His answer doesn’t quite satisfy my weird jealous streak. Personal trainers can still be sexy ladies with six-packs. Which again, doesn’t matter—even if this trainer was a Margot Robbie lookalike who got James sweaty in more ways than one, she’s in the past.
Ugh, I have to ask him, or my imagination is apparently going to run away with me.
“Yeah? What’s your trainer’s name?” My voice doesn’t sound as casual as I wish it did. “I should send them a thank-you note.”
“Rodney,” he says. “Old army guy, helped me through a back injury back in college.”
“Rodney,” I repeat with satisfaction. Sounds like a guy with zero Margot Robbie resemblance. “Next time you talk, tell him I love him.”
“I’m not sure I’m supposed to facilitate my wife’s love affair with another man,” he grumbles.
“Hush. Rodney deserves my affection.”
I lean back against him, closing my eyes and feeling more content than I have in a long time. If there’s no purple block on the schedules, a massage from James might just be the next best thing.