Chapter 3 #2
He was nothing like she’d imagined. M. Waterman had been worlds out of her league, successful, established, and self-assured.
An inspiration. An idol. An abstract fantasy for her enjoyment.
The man embracing her was very real. He was a slob, insecure about his work, and obviously clueless about the professional art world.
Strangely, all of that increased his appeal.
They understood each other on a level that transcended the particulars of their lives.
It had been clear in the gallery, when she showed him a dozen cakes that echoed aspects of his paintings.
It was even more obvious now. His sketches were bare bones, but she could see them.
His creative shorthand made sense to her, like they shared the same language.
His sketches made her heart pound and her fingers itch to shape cake and icing into art.
She’d thought she needed a break from work to get her mojo back, but apparently all she’d needed was an evening with Mike Waterman. Her brain was bursting with wedding cake ideas she couldn’t wait to pitch to clients.
Too bad she had eighteen dozen donuts to make from scratch tomorrow. All she wanted to do was sketch cake ideas until she’d captured every bit of inspiration gleaned from the canvases filling the room.
She growled under her breath.
“What?” he asked.
“So much cake inspiration, so little time.” She gestured around the room.
“Tomorrow will be sucked up by donut prep. Maybe Monday, too, depending on how well it goes. I’m dying to play with colors and ideas, but I’m going to be elbow deep in flour, yeast, fruit, and sugar until Monday evening.
Even if I took notes all night, I’d never capture all the ideas your work inspires. When are you leaving?”
“Monday morning.”
She groaned.
“Would it help if I said you can take pictures?” he asked, like it was no big idea.
She stared at him, trying to find words. “Really?” she squeaked.
“As long as I’m not in them,” he added. “Go right ahead.”
Her curiosity pricked. He really had a thing about secrecy. Was he a spy? In the witness protection program? But she’d promised. No personal questions.
“I have another condition.” His eyes gleamed.
“What? Tell me. I’m pretty sure I’ll say yes to anything to get photos of these beauties.”
His grin widened. “You can photograph every painting in this room…if you let me sketch you.”
Her heart dropped. She tried not to let her resistance show on her face as she analyzed her unexpected and strong emotional response to being asked to model for him.
She wasn’t a prude. Definitely not an angel.
She preferred casual hook-ups and had a couple of friends with benefits back home in Manhattan.
Several Matzo Ballers ago, she’d disembarked with not one but two companions for the rest of the evening, and she hadn’t had a single regret.
She wasn’t modest or self-conscious about her body.
So what was so objectionable about Mike asking her to pose for him, if it wasn’t the naked part?
Then it hit her: they’d been vibing as equals. Now she felt put on a pedestal, objectified by him, when she wanted to be standing in front of her own canvas, creating with him.
His head tilted, and his full brows drew tight. “I can see you aren’t thrilled with that idea. What’s going through your mind?”
“Nothing, it’s fine.” She was being silly. “If that’s the price of taking photos of your work, then yes.”
He shook his head slowly. “There’s no price.
I’m flattered as hell you find my sketches good enough to inspire your stunning cakes.
I’ve been craving something sweet since you showed me your pictures, although that could be because I haven’t eaten regular meals in over a week.
I also haven’t slept much, so I might not be thinking clearly.
But even in my impaired state, I can tell I said something wrong. What was it?”
She shrugged. “Nothing—modeling is a big ask but probably commensurate with photographing about a hundred never-before-seen Waterman sketches, honestly. It’s totally fine.
” Before she lost her nerve, she stepped out of his grip, grasped the hem of her dress, and yanked it up and over her head in one swift, self-assured movement. “Where do you want me?”
Micah slammed his eyes shut, but not before he got a glimpse of long, lithe legs and a purple-flowered thong. He groped for her hands and found them, clamped around her dress. “Put that back on, please.”
“What—why? I thought you wanted to sketch me.” Her voice was wooden, nothing like the energized tone she’d had before his disastrous request.
“Sketch you with your clothes on,” he said quickly.
“I would never. I mean—damn.” He had to be careful or he’d sound like he was judging her for whipping her dress off like an afterthought.
“Anyone would be lucky to see you naked, but I’d never presume to ask for nudity outside of a professional relationship. ”
She was quiet for a moment, and then she snickered softly. “Have many of those, do you?”
He scrubbed his palms over his eyes, mortified but relieved she sounded like herself again.
“Not that kind of professional, not that there’s anything wrong with that.
In some states, at least, legally, I mean.
” He tried again. “A model, not a prostitute.” Air wafted against him, and he hoped it was her dress settling safely back over those killer legs. “Are you dressed yet?”
“You can open your eyes,” she said.
When he did, she was looking at the floor, the canvases, everywhere but at him.
He reached for her chin and lifted her gaze to his.
“Let’s start over. Can I please sketch you?
Fully dressed? If you aren’t comfortable with that, I would love to take a few pictures of you.
You’re stunning, and I want to remember the way you make me feel.
But if that’s a no, then forget it. Take all the pictures you want. I’m glad you like them.”
“Oh.” She blinked a few times. “Now I feel silly.”
“Please don’t. Not gonna lie—you may have just made my entire year. Does that make you feel better?”
One side of her mouth curved. “A lot better, actually.”
He let out a huge breath. “Good—how about I find something for us to eat, and then we can get to work?”
“That sounds like a great plan. I haven’t eaten since lunch, but maybe we should order in? Your kitchen—”
“That’s fair.” He chuckled. It was almost eight, but he was pretty sure the pizza place on Boynton Beach Boulevard was open late on Saturdays. “Pizza?”
“Perfect.”
“Veggie okay?” He didn’t keep kosher, but asking if she did might tip her off that he was Jewish, too. Not many outside the faith understood kosher laws.
“Sounds great.”
A Google search got him to the right place, and he placed an order for delivery. “There’s nothing in the fridge worth drinking, but I’ve got plenty of wine. No stealing my glass this time,” he joked.
“No promises,” she shot back. “Other people’s wine tastes better.”
“Especially wine purchased by my parents. They know their stuff and are kind enough to stock up for my vacations.”
She made a noise of agreement, but he could tell he didn’t have her attention anymore. Her gaze darted from canvas to canvas, and she kept reaching for her phone and then checking herself.
“Go ahead,” he encouraged her. “I can tell you want to get started. Can I sketch while you take pictures?”
She was out of her chair like a shot. “Can I see when you’re done?”
“Of course.”
Methodically, she worked her way through the canvases snapping pictures while he followed, shifting with her as she moved.
By the time she’d photographed the last canvas, they’d decimated the pizza and finished the bottle of wine. He had a slight buzz and five new canvases stacked on a chair.
“I don’t remember these.” She took a closer look and gasped. “Oh my god, I thought you meant sketch in a book. You just did these? All of them?”
He grinned, thrilled with her astonished expression. “Do you like them?”
“I love them. They don’t even look like me.”
“Hey! That’s not nice. I thought I did a good job capturing you.”
She looked incredulous. “This is how you see me?”
He nodded.
“Amazing.” She yawned so hard she fell back onto the couch, eyes shut.
“Sorry—I’m beat. I’ve been up since five.
I’m usually in bed hours ago. I’m an early bird.
It’s a baker thing. Now I’m babbling. Give me a second, and I’ll pull myself together and get out of your hair.
” She yawned again, her body arching. Then she sank further into the couch.
“Power nap,” she mumbled. “Stupid wine. So delicious…”
He watched her crash into sleep. Gently, he eased her head onto a pillow and lifted her legs onto the couch.
The urge to create pounded in his blood, impossible to resist, especially when his muse’s newest obsession was lying right there, begging to be covered in a blanket of flowers. Sleep? Who needs sleep? Not me.
Moving quietly, he carried his easel to the couch and set up a canvas. Then he loaded a palette and began painting with sure strokes, following the vision in his mind’s eye, guided by the emotions the night had stirred in him, and driven by the soft sounds of her sleepy sighs.