Chapter 3
Chapter Three
Libby’s heart thudded faster than her feet on the sidewalk as she kept pace with Mike.
Never in her wildest fantasies had she imagined something like this happening. Did Mike feel the same chemistry she was feeling? Or was it just wishful thinking on her part?
Of course, he could be a total player, inviting every woman who liked his work back to his place to see it, but then why the secrecy? A sliver of unease slowed her steps.
Throwing caution to the wind was fine as long as she did it safely. He didn’t give her serial killer vibes, but she should probably let someone know where she was, at least.
“Uh—hey, I know you don’t want anyone to know I met you, but I don’t make it a habit to follow men back to their condos, even if they are offering to show me my personal equivalent of the Ark of the Covenant.”
She was reassured by his easy grin.
He cleared his throat. “I’m glad to hear that, for more than one reason. I can assure you I’m completely harmless, but what would make you feel safe?”
She thought for a moment. “I’d like to share my location with a friend.”
“Good idea.” His gaze was warm. “Tell them I said hi and my intentions are honorable.”
She unlocked her phone and found her conversation with Sylvie.
Hope all is well. I met a guy in Palm Beach, and I’m heading to his condo. I feel safe, but could you text me in two hours? What time is it where you are?
Sylvie had been globetrotting with Eli for almost a year, healing her heart after her disastrous break with their good friend Avi. In Libby’s opinion, those two were only good for inspiring each other to higher levels of chaos, but Sylvie had taken it hard.
Come on, Syl. Please be awake.
After a few more tense seconds of waiting, Libby got the dancing emoji in reply.
Sylvie
Get it, girl. Time is meaningless when it comes to hook-ups. I’ll set an alarm.
Thanks, friend.
Sylvie hearted her, and Libby shared her location. A second later, Sylvie shared hers: Hawaii. Lucky duck.
She turned her attention back to Mike, who was patiently waiting in front of a gate to the beach.
“My parents live here full-time, but they’re in Barcelona right now,” he said, opening the gate and letting her go first. “I’ve been using their place for the past couple of weeks.
I have to warn you, it’s a wreck. I get super-focused on vacations, and I pretty much sketch all the time.
” He grimaced. “I really meant to clear the debris before going to the gallery, but I got caught up. Maybe this isn’t such a good idea—”
“Stop right there,” she commanded. “I don’t care if it looks like a bomb went off, I’m dying to see what your process looks like.” How bad could it be? It couldn’t be worse than her younger brother’s room when he was a teenager.
“Unfortunately, you just described my process. A bomb going off. Before I let you in, you have to promise not to judge me on the number of banana peels, coffee cups, dirty towels…uh, or the smell.”
His lips pressed together, and there was a line between his heavy brows that she wanted to smooth. He really looked worried. How bad was it?
“I promise I won’t judge,” she vowed.
He took a deep breath and blew it out, then opened the door.
An involuntary noise escaped her as the fetid notes of mildewed towels mixed with old fruit and sour milk hit her in the face.
“Actually, wait out here. Give me five minutes.” He disappeared inside, propping the door open behind him.
She waited, amused, listening to him crash around inside, ostensibly hiding the evidence of his slovenly ways. She heard water running. A toilet flush. Ewwwww.
She rolled her eyes. Men.
Finally, the door opened wider, and he beckoned her in. “Okay, I think you can come in without a haz-mat suit. I swear I’m not usually such a slob.”
She forgot about the lingering stench in the air when she saw canvases everywhere. Big, small, and medium-sized. In piles. Stacked against walls. Propped on every piece of furniture in the open concept condo.
She stepped forward, peering around at the gorgeous kitchen, comfortably furnished sitting room, and dining area.
The walls were a calm gray, and the cream-colored leather furniture looked cool and inviting beneath the clutter of canvases.
Down a small hallway, through the open door of a bedroom, she saw more canvases propped against an unmade bed.
He hurried over to shut the bedroom door. “Still a mess in there.”
“Okay—I lied,” she admitted. “I’m totally judging you.”
He laughed. “It’s okay. I’m judging me, too. It’s a disaster. But hey, think of it this way: it can only get better, right?”
“Let’s hope it can’t get worse,” she teased. “Can I explore now? Is it safe?”
“Be my guest.” He swept an arm around the cluttered room. “Would you like me to take you through my creative explosion in order?”
“Hell yes,” she said, clapping her hands.
Excitement had kindled inside her the moment she caught sight of the first canvas and was blazing merrily like a lit sparkler in her chest, firing her imagination. His hastily sketched designs practically turned themselves into wedding cake designs in her mind.
He caught her hand and led her to the most crowded corner, moving canvases with less care than she ever would have dared.
“It started here, with dahlias, which I’ll add later.
” He pointed at the elegant figure of a woman lying on her side and looking over her shoulder.
“Then that led here. Because she had to be looking at something, right?” He uncovered a sketch of the same woman, now on her back, beckoning with every line and curve of her body, like she was making room for someone to join her.
She licked her suddenly parched lips. Was it getting warmer in here?
He continued. “Irises are my favorite to paint, so this happened.” He revealed another painting and pointed at two figures, intertwined.
“I can’t imagine these rough sketches look like much to you.
I try to capture what I’m seeing in my head as best I can in lines, and then I go back later and add flowers.
I don’t erase anything. If I get too far from my vision, I grab another canvas.
Honestly, I don’t know why I’m showing these to you.
Until I start painting, they don’t look like much. ”
She squeezed his hand. “I get it, and I’m honored you’re trusting me with your vision.”
“Really?” He looked shocked.
“Don’t you have someone else who sees your work before it’s done?”
Slowly, he shook his head. “Never.”
Disbelief unspooled in her chest. “That seems impossible. I imagined you having an agent. Selling your work, even though I couldn’t find prices listed anywhere, and you don’t have a website. Do you paint as a hobby?” She could barely get the word out.
His mouth opened. Shut. Opened. “Maybe?”
She forced air into her suddenly constricted lungs. “I’m gonna need a minute. I’m speechless, and that doesn’t happen very often.” Except when she was around him, it seemed.
He released her hand. “My life is complicated, and I really don’t want to be rude, but I can’t discuss my career.
I like you a lot. A whole lot, actually.
I’ve never met anyone who shares my passion for art and sees things the way I do.
I’d love nothing more than to talk about art all night with you, but I won’t discuss why it will never be the biggest part of my life. ”
His tone was a brick wall, a verbal boundary that threatened expulsion without coming right out and saying it.
She got the distinct impression that if she pushed him, he would not yield.
But she really wanted to push him. Did he not realize it was a waste to limit his God-given gift to a mere hobby?
What did he do that was so important that he relegated his brilliance to a tiny corner of his life?
It was criminal. It broke her heart and made her want to shake some sense into him.
But his full lips were pressed into an unforgiving line, and his eyes were the exact shade of almost-too-hot sugar.
Once caramel went over the edge, there was no saving it.
She needed to rescue this moment before he decided to show her the door.
“Hang on there, big guy. I told you I wouldn’t judge, and I’m not.
I was just surprised, and now I’m over it.
” Not over it. “Keep talking art, and for God’s sake, don’t stop flashing those sexy canvases at me.
I am furiously stockpiling images to fuel future cake ideas.
” And my spank bank. “Don’t leave me hanging. ”
“I’m sorry.” He sighed, sounding as frustrated as she felt. “I know I sound dramatic. I’m not trying to be a jerk or send mixed signals. I just—I can’t talk about it.”
“You’re not a jerk,” she reassured him quickly. “It’s fine. Your art; your choice. I’m sorry for making you feel bad. Do you want me to go?” Please say no.
He clutched her hand tighter. “Not at all.”
“Good—I want to stay,” she said. “Message received. Your career is not up for discussion. Hell, let’s take my career off the table, too. We don’t have to discuss anything personal. Tonight, we are two art lovers, no more and no less.” She shrugged, pretending an ease she did not feel. “Simple.”
His grip eased. His thumb swept soothingly over the back of her hand, the slow, steady rhythm awakening her body. She drifted closer, until their arms touched, and she felt him pull in a deep breath and then release it as a soft sigh. It made her sigh, too.
“Thank you,” he murmured, his words puffing against her forehead.
She nodded, her gaze drifting downward. A force she didn’t understand pulled her toward him, until her head rested on his chest. His hands moved to her waist and then linked behind her back. She wrapped her arms around him, felt his cheek come to rest on the top of her head.