Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Glorious.
Libby glanced around the gallery, feeling like she was two glasses of wine into a very promising night.
How did Waterman make flat canvases and images come to life?
From first glance, a story unfolded in her mind’s eye.
One pass wasn’t going to come close to slaking her thirst for his colors and composition.
She was going to circle the gallery until she was drunk on glorious art.
Maybe she wouldn’t even check into her Airbnb.
Maybe she’d set up camp here and stare at paintings until it was time to mix donut dough.
Her breath caught.
The first piece was similar to her favorite Iris painting.
She hadn’t known there were more paintings in the series, but this wall held several variations, each more erotic than the last. By the time her gaze hit the final painting, her heartbeat was thudding in her ears, and her skin ached to be touched.
The lines of the flowers and the bodies they concealed were bold, fearless, each petal lovingly detailed, frilled with seductive secrets begging to be discovered.
She wanted to sketch another Iris-inspired cake design immediately.
Not bringing a pad of paper had been tremendously short-sighted of her.
Holy God.
Waterman must have been channelling Georgia O’Keeffe when he created the next series of paintings.
The periphery of each canvas bled into an arid, lifeless desert while the central images, a single dahlia in bloom, screamed with brilliant, vivid color.
She wanted to stroke the canvas, maybe even… lick it?
Needing a moment to recover, she scanned the well-dressed crowd filling the chic space, trying to spot a center of interest that would indicate the artist was in attendance.
What form would genius take? Dark? Fair?
Would he be tall? Or short? It was bizarre, in this day and age, that she couldn’t find more information about him.
The only place M. Waterman seemed to exist was on his single social media account and in her imagination.
He’d never given an interview. There were no articles about him.
None of the images he posted showed his face, although many captured his hand stroking paint onto a canvas.
His palms were wide and his fingers square-tipped and blunt.
They were capable-looking hands, strong and steady-looking.
Her personal favorite was a shot of his hand casually wrapped around the stems of an enormous bouquet of daisies.
She knew every knuckle and vein by heart.
She would never admit how many times she’d looked at that picture, trying to guess his age from the texture of his skin and the tension in his veins.
She’d memorized the shape of the calluses on his index and middle fingers and had probably spent way too much time fantasizing about how they would feel on her skin.
What would it be like to be touched by hands capable of the boldest strokes and the most delicate feathering details?
To be with someone capable of creating such beauty?
A girl can dream.
Waterman was a complete mystery—and destined to remain so, it seemed. Although people gathered around each of the dozen canvases displayed on the soft, white walls, there was no large crowd of admirers anywhere, no one waiting for their chance to chat with greatness. Clearly, Waterman wasn’t here.
Maybe it was better this way. There was no way he could live up to her fantasy, anyway. Still, disappointment dulled the edges of her enjoyment.
“Well, shit,” she murmured, catching a disapproving side-eye from an older woman wearing an elegant black wrap dress and fabulous red heels that made Libby regret her comfortable-for-travel gladiator sandals and colorful tank dress. She’d made her flight—barely—but her connection had been delayed.
Not wanting to miss a moment of the event in case Waterman showed up, she’d come straight to the gallery with her carry-on, which was now parked behind the front desk.
Was it too late to find the restroom and change into her own little black dress?
She was way out of her league in this fashionable crowd.
What was I thinking? I belong behind the scenes.
She didn’t attend the swanky parties; she served food at them.
She didn’t rub elbows with the heavy hitters; she took orders from them.
The only time she shed her chef’s coat and pants with pockets was once a year on the Matzo Baller cruise, and even then, she was more comfortable flying under the radar.
She sidled toward the next painting, trying to blend in.
Purple, blue, and red flowers dominated the canvas, a riot of color surrounding two figures in a garden. The man had his hands on the woman’s face, like he was pulling her close for a kiss or maybe tugging her somewhere lower.
Libby’s mouth began to water as she imagined being the woman in the garden…with M. Waterman. Heat flared in her cheeks and swept downward, painting her chest pink, beading her nipples, and awakening her core. She swallowed the saliva pooling under her tongue, trying not to gulp.
The ridiculousness of standing in a Palm Beach art gallery surrounded by snowbirds while getting hot over the thought of giving a blow job to the artist turned her next attempt at a normal-looking swallow into a giggle. Spit flew into her throat, choking her, and she began to cough violently.
She clamped her lips shut and covered her mouth, exploding inward, desperately trying not to draw attention to herself.
She battled to get her breathing under control, but every time she looked at the painting, it set her off again, arousal and amusement swirling into a spit hurricane inside her. Stop being weird. No one else was thinking about blow jobs —or were they?
She cast a glance over her shoulder.
Maybe she was imagining it, but there was a definite sexual charge in the room.
Many in the crowd were obviously paired up, with jeweled hands resting in the crooks of tan elbows and casually possessive arms draped around trim waists.
Most were over sixty, except for the guy behind the bar in the corner, deftly pouring red wine into an exquisite balloon glass.
Judging on age alone, there was a good chance this crowd had plenty of experience giving blow jobs. Her wayward brain painted the scene: sunset, a balcony…an elegant coiffure getting completely wrecked…maybe a towel on the floor to protect aging knees…
She snort-coughed again, eyes watering.
“Are you all right?” The bartender stopped next to her. He had a glass of red wine in one hand and a glass of water in the other. “Do you need a drink?”
Gratefully, she took the wine and sipped carefully. “Thank you.”
“Actually, that one was mine,” he said, chuckling. “But it’s yours now. I didn’t drink any yet.”
“Oh! I’m so sorry. I assumed—”
“That I was the bartender? You and several other people in the room. The bar is actually self-serve, but I went with it.” He shrugged. “Occupational hazard of being in the service industry.”
“Sorry for stealing your wine, but I appreciate it.” She checked him out over the rim of the glass as she took another sip.
The tall, dark, bearded not-bartender was low-key hot.
His thick, brown hair curled wildly around his face.
Dark brows emphasized his warm, caramel-colored eyes.
His nose was big, but it worked on him. A Jew? Maybe. Rude to ask, though.
She held out her hand. “I’m Libby. I work in food service, so I get it. I probably would have done the same thing.”
“Mike.” He took her hand. “What do you do?” His warm hand engulfed hers, his handshake strong and firm, his fingers felt slightly rough. Did he work with his hands, too? She glanced down, checking out his hand as he released her.
Wide palms. Square-tipped fingers. A wave of heat torched her body, and her heart slammed in her chest. No way.
Wide-eyed, she grasped his hand again, turning it over to scrutinize the pattern of veins on the back.
Then she flipped it, using the fingers of her opposite hand to spread his palm, seeking out the thick finger calluses that haunted her fantasies.
Her exploration pushed up the cuff of his dress shirt, and a streak of blue paint smeared his wrist.
A gasp tore out of her throat.
Peripherally, she was aware that her behavior was bizarre. They’d just met, and she was groping him, but she didn’t care. She lifted her gaze to his. “Are you M. Water—”
“Nope.” She didn’t even get the name out of her mouth before he hauled her across the room away from the crowd. He stopped in front of a mixed medium oceanscape and stared at it like it was the most fascinating thing he’d ever seen.
“I’m Mike,” he said firmly, squeezing her hand. “Just Mike.”
She stared at him, drinking in his profile, jutting chin, tight jaw behind his short beard, firm lips, tension in every line of his face. Then she looked at his hand, wrapped tightly around hers. She’d recognize that hand anywhere.
He was lying. He had to be.
A thrill shot through her. M. Waterman—Mike—was here.
She looked down again. Just to be sure. Holy crap—M. Waterman is holding my hand. She couldn’t resist seeking out the rough edges of his calluses with her thumb.
“What made you think I might be—him?” he asked, giving her a brief, quelling side-eye.
Her thumb froze mid-stroke.
She opened her mouth to answer and then shut it. Recognizing him by his hands? Who did that?
“Umm…” she began. “I love your work. I mean, his work,” she stammered.
She caught her breath, scoffing to herself at the understatement.
There was no way to tell the truth and make it sound like anything other than what it was: a teeny obsession.
“I may have spent a few, uh, years looking at Waterman’s social media posts.
His hands are in a lot of the pictures,” she finished lamely. “I noticed them.”