3. JUST OUT OF REACH
JUST OUT OF REACH
Emerson and I had breakfast at a restaurant near the gallery this morning, waiting for it to open.
I’m not entirely sure what to expect, but I’m nervous.
Will he be there? Will they actually accept my information to give over to him?
All this uncertainty is making my skin crawl.
I want to see him. I need to lay eyes on him again.
I have this itch I can’t scratch, and it’s driving me insane.
I look at the glass door again, debating if I really want to do this.
Am I making a fool of myself if I go in there and do this?
Will they think I’m weird? Most importantly, will he think I’m crossing a line?
At this point, I’d do anything to get his attention.
I just don’t know how to go about it without looking like a creep, though I do have one idea. Hopefully, it works.
Em places a hand on my shoulder and squeezes once, saying, “You got this, Con. I believe in you.”
I snort. “You have more confidence in me than I have in myself.”
“You need to change that.” He chuckles, and I look at him. His eyes are set intently on my face, and he has a smirk on his lips. “You’re hot, and you have a pretty face. He’d be stupid not to go out with you.”
“What if he’s not into guys?” I frown, only now thinking of that. Fuck. How did I not think of that? “What if I’m fucking this all the way up? Oh, fuck. I’m making a fool of myself, aren’t I?”
“Hell no,” he says firmly. “You’re doing this, and you’re not going to question it. If he’s not into guys, at the very least, he’ll be flattered. You’ll take the rejection with your head held high, and you’ll move on knowing you at least tried.”
“I don’t know if I can take his rejection,” I admit.
“Only because you’ve never been rejected before.” His eyes sparkle when he says it, and I roll my own. “You’ll get over it eventually. Maybe.”
“Great,” I mutter. “So maybe I’ll be reliving this day for a long time.”
“It’s possible.” Emerson shrugs. “Or he might just give you the time of day, and all will be well.”
“What if—” I sigh, rubbing a hand down my face in frustration. “What if he doesn’t even call me?”
“Then you’ll have your answer.”
“He probably doesn’t know who I am.”
“Oh, I’m sure the guy who ran out of the exhibit as if his ass was on fire won’t be easy to forget.” Em smirks.
“Thanks,” I reply sarcastically, and he laughs.
“Unforgettable,” he says, grinning. “At least he can’t say you’re boring. He might even be a little bit intrigued by the whole situation, which works in your favor.”
I nod, hoping he’s right. “We’ll see, I guess.”
“Let’s go in.”
Emerson opens the door for me, waiting until I go inside before walking in behind me. There’s a desk in the reception area, and a lady with silver hair stands behind the counter. She looks up at us with a welcoming smile on her face, and I steel myself. I can’t fuck this up. I won’t.
“Hello, gentlemen,” she greets. “How can I help you today?”
“Hi,” I say softly, then clear my throat. “I’m not sure if you still have the photograph available, but I wanted to purchase it.”
Emerson chuckles under his breath, and I shoot him a look that can only be translated to shut the fuck up. He grins but obliges. The lady’s eyes sparkle, and she nods, rounding the counter until she’s in front of me.
“What’s your name?” she asks, then tips her chin towards the glass doors that lead to the exhibit. “I haven’t seen you before.”
“I’m Conrad Moore,” I reply. “I was here last night, though not for very long.”
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Moore.” She sounds friendly. Way too friendly for this early in the morning. “I’m Glenda.”
“Nice to meet you, too, Glenda.” If we could get past the pleasantries now, I’d really appreciate it. But I don’t say that. “I can show you the portrait. Hopefully, it’s still there.”
“Sure,” Glenda says with an easy smile. “Lead the way.”
I hold my breath as I walk through the gallery, then expel it in a whoosh when I see the picture is still there.
Thank fuck. I don’t stop walking until I’m standing right in front of it.
I stare at those indigo blue eyes, his eyes, until Glenda and Emerson catch up to me.
Em comes to stand at my side, and when I look at him, he’s smirking.
“I can see why you’re so obsessed.” He grins. “Beautiful eyes.”
“For the last time—I’m not obsessed,” I groan.
“Then what do you call this?” he asks, amusement lacing his voice.
“Interested.” I shrug.
“You’re going to a lot of trouble for someone merely interested.”
“Oh, this is a beautiful photograph,” Glenda says, and when I look at her, she has a soft smile on her face. “He is very talented. His self-portraits sell like hot cakes around here. I wonder why that is.”
“He’s gorgeous, that’s why,” I murmur before I even realize what I’m saying, and my cheeks heat when she chuckles, and Emerson outright laughs.
“Not obsessed, my ass,” he mutters.
“Did you want to purchase this piece?” Glenda asks, and I nod. “We can have it delivered as early as tomorrow. Will that work for you?”
“Yes.” I smile tightly. “The sooner the better.”
“Great. You can follow me to finalize your purchase,” she says, and I follow her back to the lobby.
She directs me into an office and closes the door.
Emerson sits to my left, and she sits across from us behind a wooden mahogany desk.
“Did you want it delivered with the same frame, or are you going to purchase your own frame?”
“I’ll take it as is.” I smile. “I want to hang it up immediately.”
“Of course you do.” Glenda’s eyes sparkle as she looks at me knowingly. Am I being that obvious? “How would you like to pay today?”
I hand over my card, and she gives me a receipt, asking for my information. Name, phone number, address. The basics. We set up a delivery time for tomorrow, and I exhale roughly when she says she’s all done. She raises an eyebrow, and I smile, but it’s wobbly at best.
“I have one more request,” I tell her, and she grins. “Please.”
“What may that be?” Glenda asks as if she knows exactly what’s about to come out of my mouth.
“I’d like to get in contact with him,” I reply, shaking slightly.
“Kenneth Dunn is a difficult man to get in contact with,” she tells me, but her smile hasn’t vanished, so there must be hope. “Do you know how many people have tried? Men and women. He never agrees.”
“Um—” I stutter, unable to think clearly. “I’ll leave my information anyway. Just in case. You can just give him my name and number.”
“And what shall I describe you as?”
I grimace. “You can say I’m the guy who ran out.”
Glenda chuckles, nodding as she writes everything down on a notepad. “Consider it done.”
“Thanks, Glenda,” I say, meaning it. “I don’t have high hopes, but thank you.”
“You never know.” She winks at me, and I relax a little bit.
Maybe I’m not that pathetic for doing this if I’m not the first one.
But that also bothers me slightly. If we were a couple and he was chased after like this constantly, how would that make me feel?
But you’re not a couple, dumbass. Probably never will be.
“Right.” I nod once, getting up from the chair, and Emerson does the same. “I hope you have a great day. I’ll keep my fingers crossed for a text.”
She grins. “I’m rooting for you. Maybe his next photograph will be of you.” I shake my head with a chuckle. “You never know.”
“That’s right, Con,” Em says with a grin. “There’s always hope.”
“Alright, Mr. Romantic.” I grin back. “Let’s get out of here. I need to stop by the office today.”
“Conrad, it’s Sunday.” Emerson rolls his eyes, and I open the door and step out. He follows. “You’re not going to work.”
“Only for a little bit.” I roll my eyes at him, too. “I have shit to do, Em. Some of us actually have responsibilities.”
“Oh, fuck off.” He chuckles. “I’m plenty responsible.”
“Be for fucking real.” I laugh. “You wouldn’t step foot inside that office on a weekend if your life depended on it.”
“You’re right, because unlike you, I’m not married to my job,” he huffs. “Also, last night you said you want someone who isn’t a workaholic. Well, they usually look for partners who aren’t either. You can’t expect someone to want to be with you with the schedule you keep.”
I frown. “You’re right. But I’m not tied down, so it doesn’t matter.”
“You will be soon…”
“I don’t want to get my hopes up and crash and burn,” I tell him sadly, sighing as we walk out of the gallery.
“You won’t,” he says confidently. “This is going to work out for you. I know it.”
“Let’s fucking hope so.” I bite my lip, then say. “I really think we’re meant to be.”
“You’re acting as if you believe in fate now?” Em asks playfully, then waggles his brows when I narrow my eyes at him.
“Yeah.” I shrug. “Maybe it wouldn’t be the craziest thing.”
Not crazier than me dreaming of a man I’ve never met. Not crazier than meeting him in real life. That’s for damn sure.
Emerson and I say goodbye, and before long, I’m back in my penthouse, removing a painting from above the sectional couch.
I’m not sure where I’m going to put it, but it has to go.
Maybe I’ll sell it on Facebook. I look at the bare wall, envisioning his picture on it.
A flutter of excitement makes my stomach flip, and I smile to myself.
I’ll get to see those gorgeous eyes and strands of golden hair every day from now on, and that makes me happier than I want to admit.
The knowledge that I’ll have a picture of him—my obsession, according to Emerson—to stare at every day, is a bit alarming.
I’ll probably look at it for hours, imagining a life with him.
I really hope he calls me and we can set up a date; it would make me feel less creepy.
Would he be turned off by the knowledge that I purchased a photograph of him and hung it in my living room?
I guess there’s only one way to find out.
There has to be some kind of etiquette for this, like maybe not hanging a photograph of a man you want to date before you’ve started dating, but I think I’m past the point of caring.
I keep waiting for his face to be revealed in my dreams, but it hasn’t happened yet, and I don’t know if it ever will.
What if I’m left wondering forever if they’re the same person?
But no, they have to be. Their hands look the same, and they have the tattoo in the exact same spot as well.
That can’t be a coincidence—it’s too uncanny.
And even if I did believe in coincidences, this would still be pushing it.
Shaking my head, I go to my room and change into work attire, putting on black slacks and a button-down white-and-black striped shirt.
Once I’ve put my dress shoes on, I grab my keys from the entryway table along with my wallet and get in the elevator.
This is what I need. A distraction. Doing something to keep me occupied until I get a phone call or text.
Or until I don’t and I have to move on. Either way, I shouldn’t wait around for it.
But even I know I will.