Chapter 10
BABS
He scoops up my heels, letting them dangle from his fingertips, before grabbing my hand and leading me away from the lawn. I don’t ask where we’re going. I just follow. The path, worn from sea spray and salt water, is cold on my feet.
The wind plays with the hem of his linen shirt, tugging it against his spine, giving me glimpses of his muscular body and the inked tattoos that adorn it.
We move past the gardens and greenhouse.
Past the glimmering pool, and every space I’d expect a man like Hollister to use to impress a woman.
He veers toward a modest structure tucked behind a veil of ivy and hydrangeas.
A faded blue side door in need of paint, maintenance, or replacement altogether. He glances over his shoulder, mischief ghosting over his features as he pushes it open.
Inside, it's cool. Dust motes shimmer in slanted light like suspended stars. The scent of turpentine and old wood seeps into my lungs. My footsteps slow. Canvas after canvas leans against the walls. Modern, chaotic, and yet alive.
This isn’t curated. This is confessional. Every surface is consumed with charcoal, ink, and oil. Not one signature. Not one name, just an abstract H. I drift forward, pulse rising with every step. One canvas catches me by the throat.
I stop moving.
Stop breathing.
It’s me.
Unfinished but unmistakable. I recognize the sweep of my shoulders. The tired bend of my neck. The quiet collapse in my posture. It’s rendered in a dozen aching lines. A different version of me than the one on his phone.
My hand is in my lap. My mouth is downturned. My eyes are sad. Drawn as if he stared at them for hours. Unbeknownst to me, he must have, because the grief is there. The yearning. The exhaustion of wanting something I can’t name, much less allow myself to have.
“This is me.”
My accusation is as sharp as my turn, staring him down as a means to demand an explanation. He licks his lips, setting my heels down on an old wooden stool, covered in paint speckles.
“It is.”
“Why?”
I look back at it, mind racing to that night.
My gaze moves back to the painting, waiting for his answer. He moves closer, not enough to touch, but for his presence to loom over me. Not intimidating, but seeking peace at this sudden invasion of my privacy. Before I can ask again, he answers.
“I really wanted to paint that first night.”
I look over my shoulder at him. Clueless about what he’s talking about. Our eyes connect, the chemistry growing. This side of him is new to me.
Introspective and quiet.
Not readily charming or shmoozing people.
No. This version is raw and real. Authentic in a way I only dream of being.
I find myself wanting to lean back, to sag against his chest, weary from all the scrutiny of our carefully curated life.
Yet, years of training keep me from giving in to my urge to touch him.
“What first night?”
My throat clogs with everything I cannot say. The feelings of lust and wanting catch in my throat.
“It was after your divorce and scandal. The first party you attended. Tongues were wagging, of course. You held your head high, expression hard as marble. You looked regal but sad. Soft skin over an iron spine.”
His words are low, no more than a whisper. Heavy with the emotions he captured in these strategically placed lines. His eyes flick beyond me, to it. The painting from now. Not the first event after my divorce.
My gaze follows.
“I expected Dom to be there. Hoped he would be, so I’d have someone to hang out with. But you showed up alone.”
The floor creaks with the final step he takes toward me. His chest is against my back. The warmth seeps into my dress, heating my body, while he explains.
“I was surprised. Heard others gasp. You stood in the doorway, surveyed the room. Eyed everyone eyeing you back.”
His words enthrall me. His hands grasp my arms, skimming down my skin until they wrap around me. Holding me gently as his words lull me into a story I didn’t even know anyone noticed, including him. I don’t even recall him being there.
Then again, I was too scared to really look around the room in case my eyes would land on my recently ex-husband and his latest conquest.
“You didn’t turn and run. You didn’t even hesitate for a second before snatching up a glass of champagne and walking into that place like you damn near owned it.
I remember thinking, even back then, how stunning you were.
It was a red dress. Probably too audacious for the event, but it looked perfect on you. ”
He paints a very romantic picture of a terrible night. My first experience in society as a divorced woman.
“The red made me feel sexy and powerful.”
I lean into him. Drenched in his admiration when I was at my lowest. His hum of agreement soaks into my body. Confirming and appreciative.
“Your hair was swept up, adding to your allure. You were Babs fucking badass Barrett. I think that’s when my crush really started.”
I gaze over my shoulder, his expression the most serious I’ve ever seen.
“Pardon me?”
His arms tighten, unwilling to let me go while confessing his ages-old secret.
“Yeah. I’ve thought about you forever. Painted, sketched, and drawn you a lot over the years.”
He waves a hand around the room, a sadness in his tone.
I look with him, seeing bits and pieces of him in many works.
Abstracts, realism, and caricatures. All art in various modes and mediums serves as an expression of himself, existing beyond the public's gaze.
This is private and sacred, meant for a few eyes, only mine and his family's.
“I wanted you to see this, Barbara. I wanted you to know this side of me before we go any further. It’s not an obsession, I just wanted to capture you this time, when I couldn’t last time.”
He doesn’t say why he couldn’t last time. Nor do I ask. That night, which he held in reverence, was awful for me. Best to forget it. Although this sketch, the one in front of me that I already saw on his phone, is another sad night. Not as difficult in comparison, but still one I’d like to forget.
“I hope it doesn’t creep you out.”
I turn fully to face him, his confession ringing in my ears louder than the ocean outside.
He looks nervous now. Not cocky, not flirtatious.
Vulnerable in a way that matches mine. For a moment, I don’t know what to say.
No one has ever looked at me like this. Not when I was married.
Not even when I was young and still believed men meant it when they said they loved me.
I study him. Not just his expression, but the subtle tremble in his hands, the tension in his shoulders, as if he’s bracing for rejection. It does something to me. Softens me in a way I didn’t know was still possible.
My hand grips his bicep. His muscle twitches in my palms as if not prepared for my touch when he’s been holding me throughout his revelation. I reach for him, not because I’ve made a decision and not to comfort him. No, I reach for him as a buoy tumbling in the vast ocean, waiting for calm seas.
I’ve been that buoy. Far too many times. Not that the seas are calm around me, but I miss the excitement the waves once brought. My hand moves from his tight muscles to cup his face.
His eyes close when he leans into my touch like he’s been starved for it. My other hand drops to his chest. His heartbeat thuds hard against my fingertips.
“I didn’t come here to fall in love,” I murmur, needing to acknowledge what this is. What this will be, at least for me. He’s been honest every step of the way. Now it’s my turn. It’s just fun. Something to make me feel wanted and desirable again. He opens his eyes, searches mine.
“Then don’t.”
There’s no smirk.
No punchline.
Just sincerity. Like he’s offering me an out instead of a promise. A way to gently bob on the surface of the water rather than be pulled under the crashing waves. I lean up and press my mouth to his.
The kiss starts carefully.
Hesitantly, as if our shared confessions changed the state of things.
His lips are gentle, tender in their approach until his tongue pushes forth, wanting more.
His hand slides up my back, catching the zipper to my dress at my nape.
I don’t stop him. I know where this is going.
Fully onboard to experience everything he brought me here to do.
My hand moves from his cheek to his hair, twisting in the sandy blonde strands and eliciting a pleasurable groan from him.
No more resistance. No more waiting. Just him and me, in his studio, surrounded by his works.
I should be thrown off kilter. Worried or cautious, but I’m not.
I want this. I deserve him after everything I’ve been through.
Our lips and tongues intertwined, getting acquainted again. Deeper and more intense than at the gallery. He breaks the kiss, tugging at the dress to get it up and over my head.
“So fucking stunning.”
His words are a mutter of admiration. His gaze drinks me in with blown-out pupils.
A ring of wetness shimmers at his lips. His index finger traces under my bra strap, dragging it off my shoulder to fall against my arm.
I hold my breath when his touch tickles across the mound of my breast, trapped in the fabric cup.
He traces the top of one breast, then the other, before moving to my collarbone. .
“When I sketch these later, I want to know I got it right.”
An artist explaining his process. His touch blazes a trail over my flesh and down to my core.
I’m dripping in my black panties. He’s got to know that.
Yet he takes his time. His index finger joined by his other fingertips as they feather over my shoulders and the column of my neck, settling under my chin to hold it in place, the same as he’s done before.
“Will you let me?”
I blink and exhale. His lips are right there. His cock is hard and pressed into my stomach. Wanting and waiting as I am.
“Let you?”