Ten
Andrew woke her with kisses, the sun through the skylight already traveling toward the bed. They’d slept late! She realized he was angling for an encore and hastily claimed a need for the bathroom. Inside, she threw on underwear, sweats, and a tank top from the hamper, forgoing a bra. The tank was tight enough for now.
“Aw, I was just kidding, girl,” he said as she came out. He pulled on his pants from last night.
“Unless I was into it.”
“Well, obviously.” He grinned.
“It’s not my birthday anymore. Come on, I’ll make you waffles.”
He swatted her playfully on the behind as she tried to dodge, giggling.
They tumbled out of the bedroom together, him shirtless, her hair tousled. Standing at the kitchen island, looking at the large sculpture Andrew had left there last night, stood León.
He paled as he took them in.
Oh no. No.
“Hey, León,” Andrew said. “Want waffles?”
León looked back and forth at them, denial written across him, then settled on Celia. His face drained of expression. Stiffly, he raised the cup of tea in his hand.
“Just came in to see when Celia can sit today. After breakfast?”
She nodded mutely. She’d been doing that a lot around him lately. He left without another sound, and Andrew exhaled.
“He didn’t expect me,” he grinned.
“No, I don’t think he did.”
“I think I forgot to mention that we sometimes still….”
Still. Andrew really ought to be past tense by now. They’d been lazy about it.
“Yeah,” she said. “Hey, about that.”
He raised his eyebrows, then tilted his head and sighed. He knew her well.
“I think it’s time to pull the plug on this, Andrew. I like it!” she hastened to say as he opened his mouth to speak. “I just think we’re not moving onto new things because we’re okay with the old ones.”
He sat down at the island, not arguing. He’d looked more surprised when she agreed last night. “You have a new thing in mind?” he asked.
“Not really. Not yet. But I will one day.”
He pushed around the salt and pepper shakers, pouting a little.
She reached out to touch the photo from Trevor, still sitting on the counter. “I think you do, though.”
“I do?” He looked up and noticed her hand on the frame. His eyes got serious very quickly. “Oh.”
“Maybe you two…?”
He fiddled with the salt, not looking at her. “I don’t know. Maybe. I don’t know.”
“You’re not going to find out if you can stay here when you’re lonely.”
His mouth quirked into a crooked smile. “Oh, I can do both.”
She smiled back. “I can’t.”
“So, there is someone?” he asked.
“No. Maybe. I don’t know.”
“León?”
Her eyebrows shot up. “Why does everyone keep saying that? Just because he’s staying out there?”
“His face just now,” Andrew asserted. “When he gets all poker-faced, he’s hiding something. He hasn’t made any moves?”
She instantly flashed back on León last night, one fingertip tracing her skin, murmuring ‘beautiful.’ She felt her face flame.
“He did!” Andrew said. “I didn’t know. He told me last night he wasn’t interested in you. I wouldn’t have asked to stay if he’d said otherwise.”
Celia looked at him, stricken. “I’m posing for him, that’s all.”
“We’ll see.” He sighed. “I figured this was coming, but not because of León.” He touched his sculpture, then looked back at Celia. “I’ll skip breakfast if that’s okay with you. But I’m going to check with León on the way out. Make sure we’re cool.”
“Don’t say anything, please,” she urged. “About me, I mean.”
“I’ll just check that he and I are good,” he said. “I’ll leave anything else to you.”
He went to put his shirt on, wrapped his sculpture carefully, and hefted his bag. Then, with one last kiss, a little wistful, he was out.
···
“Hey,” Andrew called as he opened the pool house door.
León huffed quietly. He stood near the southern windows, frowning at a canvas but not painting. Andrew came to look too. The paint was wet and incomplete, but base layers of blues and greens and purples showed the direction it would take. A bold black line curled up, across the colors.
Andrew looked carefully. “You’ve seen her doing her night swimming thing.”
Obviously. Andrew didn’t have to rub in how well he knew her. He’d just seen that for himself.
Andrew turned to look at some nearby sketches, also of Celia. “She’s a good model. I tried to tell you.”
León frowned. He’d been doing it all morning. All week.
Andrew looked directly at León. “You know, last night you said you weren’t into her.”
“I’m not.”
“Then you don’t mind that I spent the night.”
“Nope.”
“You should know—”
León cut him off with a glare. “I’m not interested in her that way. I don’t need to know anything.”
Andrew met his eyes, then shrugged, taking León at his word.
“Good luck,” he said a little pointedly.
León finally smiled a little, sheepish, and touched his friend on the arm. Andrew smiled back. They’d be okay.
As Andrew left, León went back to staring through his canvas.
It was better that she and Andrew were still an item. He was embarrassed to remember his behavior last night. Watching her swim nude without her knowing. Chasing her down to demand she sit for him. Backing her up against the door, touching her without asking. She’d told him more than once that she was cold and wanted to go, but he’d badgered her. He owed her an apology.
Andrew had been lying in her bed while he pestered her.
He’d thought about her all night, the sight of her so vulnerable in the water. He hadn’t tried to stop the memory—he needed it fresh. He’d been up painting at dawn.
It was good that she was with Andrew. It took the whole sexual chemistry thing off the table. It was a common problem between artists and their models. Seeing them nude, obsessing over the details of their bodies, the tension you needed to keep things dynamic…it sometimes devolved into sex. It was a human reaction, after all. No one needed that complication here.
It had been a surprise, though, seeing them come out of the bedroom. An unpleasant one. For a moment, he’d felt betrayed. She was his! Not personally, but her body was his to paint. Obviously, that wasn’t true, but for a moment, he’d forgotten.
It was great that she and Andrew were together. It’d keep him focused on the painting.
He heard a knock and steeled himself. Apology first, then work.
···
Celia entered, nervous about which León awaited her.
She hadn’t changed her clothes. No way did she want him thinking she’d cleaned up for him. As she walked from the dim interior into the light from the large windows, she could see his face get blacker with each step.
He was back to irritable, apparently.
“I need to apologize to you,” he gritted out.
He what?
“No,” she said. “I said you could come in any time. I’m sorry that Andrew and I surprised you.”
He scowled fiercely. “Not about that. I don’t care about that.”
“Oh.”
“I apologize for watching you last night. I should have left.”
“Well, yes,” she agreed slowly. “You should have. But I understand about inspiration.”
“Do you?” His expression eased a fraction.
“Not personally, not yet,” she amended. “But I know artists. I get what happened.”
“Okay. Thanks. And,” León said, swallowing, “I apologize for chasing you down and bugging you to sit for me.” When she tried to shake her head, dismissing him, he cut her off. “You kept saying you wanted to go, but I didn’t listen.”
“I said I was cold,” she replied.
His eyes fell, his face finally looking as though he was sorry. “And I apologize for touching you without asking.”
But she hadn’t minded. It had been natural in the moment. Still, when he put it that way, he had a point.
“It won’t happen again,” he said.
Oh.
For a moment, their eyes met, both with faces as carefully blank as unpainted canvases.
He looked away to start straightening his brushes. “I’d like to get the shapes right now,” he said, “but the light’s wrong for final work. Would you sit again tonight, out by the pool, so I could get the colors?”
“I can do that.”
“Thanks. For now, could we put you….” He looked around at the floor-to-ceiling windows, flooded with morning light, then looked to the pool. “If we lay you here, on the floor, I could move back here. That’s about the same angle as the pool. We’ll put down some blankets so it’s more comfortable.”
“All right.”
“You can leave on underwear if you want. I just need shapes.” He began pulling blankets and pillows off his bed and laying them on the floor. She began undressing.
She sneaked a few looks toward him as he worked. He moved quickly, impatiently, but his face was like stone. Usually, she could see exactly what he was thinking, his expressive brows and mouth giving away everything. However, Andrew had said he only looked impassive when he was hiding something.
He finished laying out blankets and stood by his easel with pillows in his hands to cushion and prop her up where needed. He didn’t turn his head as she got down on the floor.
Bare except for her underwear, she stretched out on her back, raising enough to lean on her elbows, waiting for him to direct her.
···
Her underwear was pink.
León snapped his eyes to the canvas. He’d thought for a second she was fully nude, reclining on his bedding in the sun. His mouth was dry, his heart pounding. Damn. Come on, he’d worked with nude models since art school.
He had to look back to give direction.
Wow. The sight of her.
The sun was golden and fragile, with that gentleness you only got in the mornings. It reflected off her skin, rounding the curves away from the window with dark gold shadows, the parts of her near the window glowing. Her skin was warm and softly textured. The fine hairs on her arms burned like filaments. A long stripe of sun running down her thigh made a beautiful line he’d need to capture, but not for this blue painting.
Okay. Get it together.
“Could you lay back like you were last night, please? Arms out to your side.” She did so. “Your right leg bent a little at the knee, please.” The left leg had that glorious stripe of sun, the other a shadow that mirrored it, hinting at roundness and motion. “Arch your back just the smallest bit.” It made her look more as though she were floating. “Head back, please. A little less. Okay, hold that.”
He approached with the pillows, tucking one under her knee to help support it. His eyes met hers, asking silently if it was comfortable, and she nodded. He bent closer to push one under her arched back, having to tuck it firmly when it bunched against the blanket. The back of his hand brushed against her skin, and he clenched his jaw.
The final pillow went under her neck and shoulders, helping to support her arched neck. The line of her bared throat made him swallow hard. He studiously avoided looking elsewhere.
“Good?”
“I’m fine.”
At least one of them was.
He went back to his easel. Tranquilo. Breathe.
Come on, relax.
No use. The tumult inside him refused to be stamped out, so he just focused on building an impression of her in paint.
León worked furiously, grimly, layering shadows of shapes onto the canvas, painting with his eye instead of his head as he’d taught her. Much of it would be covered by vibrant colors later, but the shadows were the foundation that would give the painting depth.
Eventually, his motions slowed. He needed to move on to colors but couldn’t until they recreated this setup tonight. But, he didn’t want to stop now! The way she glistened in the sun, a sheen of perspiration on her chest—oh.
“Getting hot?” he asked. He glanced at his phone nearby. Thirty minutes, he’d painted. He hadn’t even enjoyed it.
“A little warm,” she said, her throat tight.
“Let’s break.”
He walked away, but his eyes stayed drawn to her as she slowly relaxed out of the pose. Watching as tension melted out of her was irresistible.
Clothes! Give her some clothes.
Her tank top landed on her shoulder when he tossed it at her. She pulled it on, the sun glowing through the pale khaki fabric as she stretched it over her.
Wiping her forehead with a hand, she clambered off his blankets and went to sit on the bed, the only seating area in the shade.
She looked across the room at the canvas on the easel. Did she see where it was going? It was raw and unfinished, layered with shadowy abstracts of a woman’s form. Weightless respite. Naiveté.
“That’s what you saw last night?” she asked.
“It’s got a way to go.”
She fanned herself. Water! He pulled cold bottles from the fridge and strode closer to hand her one, then leaned back against the shelves across from the daybed, crossing one ankle over the other. Casual.
He watched as she pulled up her feet to sit cross-legged and opened her water. Jesus.
Pink underwear, for god’s sake. The only piece of clothing she owned that wasn’t brown or gray, probably.
“It’s just impressions,” she said, waving her water at the easel. “I mean, just shapes.”
Discuss the painting.
“You see it, right?” he asked. “I’m trying to capture the idea. Not, you know, you.”
Her knees were shades darker than the rest of her. Too much time cleaning? Should he hint at that in the painting? It was a part of her story.
“I do see it,” she said, lifting the water to her lips, then lowering it with a glint in her eyes. “If it were a painting of me, I’d just be a red line.”
He finally smiled for the first time today. “I guess.”
Look at her, relaxing, making jokes! Sitting there cross-legged on his bed, wearing only underwear and a tank top, the hand holding her water lowering to her side. She lifted the other hand to comb back hair clinging damply to her neck. A peek of loosely creased stomach appeared as the tank top inched up.
She was all contrasts! Rough pointed knees and soft curvy midriff, shielded by crossed limbs but untroubled by her near nudity. Triangles, arcs, circles—
“I might try a blue line in tomorrow’s lesson,” she said, her eyes amused over the bottle as she finally took a drink.
Tomorrow? But he needed to work! “Yeah,” he said. “Hey, about that.”
Mid-sip, her eyebrows raised at him.
“I was thinking about yellow. I mean, a yellow painting. Another one. Of you.”
“Oh. You mean, right after this one?”
He scuffed a shoe, shifting his weight against the shelves. Celia’s shoulders were drooping already.
“The exhibition is not many weeks away,” he said, “and I need more good paintings by then. If I’m already thinking of another, I could do a series. If you’ll pose.”
That amber vision from last night, her close-up capitulation…that memory would stay vivid, waiting as he worked through this blue inspiration.
He crossed his arms. “Is that okay with you? Would you help me until then, and we concentrate on lessons after?”
She nodded slowly, her mouth turning down. “I can wait, I guess. If you need my help.”
Well, he really owed her now. Face lowered, he smiled ruefully up at her. “I better create something good.”
“You’re determined. You work hard. You’ll do it.” She looked again at the unfinished painting, face wistful. “Maybe I can learn by being a part of the process.”
He finally took a drink, relief welling up in him. Space, time, and inspiration! He’d been so worried a key piece wouldn’t show up.
“You’re integral to this,” he said. “You inspired the story, then posed.” He looked down and chuckled. “Andrew kept telling me how well you sat. He was right. I’ll have to name the series after you if that’s okay.”
She inhaled and looked away, trying to go pokerfaced but cheeks flushing.
“Celia,” he said, warningly but with a smile in his voice.
She looked back at him. “Fine,” she conceded, lips curving up. “I feel happy about that. Flattered.”
She may be turning pink, but her shoulders weren’t tensing like they usually did. She was getting better at admitting to feelings, or at least more comfortable around him. She leaned forward, face turned up to him, the light tank top gapping away from her tanned skin. She was playing with that necklace Kelsey had given her, her voice soft. He raised a hand to scratch an itch on his own neck.
“What?” she asked.
He blinked. “What do you mean, what?”
“Why are you glaring at me like that? What did I do?”
He ran his hand through his hair. He’d stopped listening to her at some point, lost in his own thoughts.
“I’m not being present. Give me a second to think.” Okay, he was looking at her. For painting! She was getting under his skin, and he didn’t like how it made him act. He just wanted so badly to paint her. He was starting to get pushy. Andrew had known, had asked him to be nice to her.
But how could he keep her posing until he’d painted her enough? And how long until it was enough? The yellow painting wouldn’t be the last in his head. How could he keep himself from creating around her, turning her until he found all her parts, drew every movement and feeling—
He realized she was still waiting, those damn eyes watching him, brows furrowed. Why did she always look so worried? He was the one under pressure here. He had to think.
“León—”
“Just…wait.” He held out a hand to stop her, and stop her it did.
She stood up. “Take all the time you need. I’m going.”
“Going! Why?”
Her eyes snapped. “You’re not in charge of every conversation we have, you know! You beg me to sit for you, apologize, and then scowl at me the whole morning. You bark at me to say what I feel, then tell me to stop talking. It’s rude!”
What? “You asked me—”
“Oh my god, stop talking! You may be an artist, but you’re not better than me. You still have to treat people with respect. Maybe I don’t know how to talk about my feelings as well as you do, but I’m not stupid!”
“I know that!” he shot back. “You just always look like you’re afraid of what I’m going to ask, and it’s irritating!”
“And you’re always glaring at me like I’m doing something wrong!” She put her hands on her hips, leaning forward at him. “I can learn if you ask questions nicely like you did at first. You’re not the boss of every conversation. You want me to pose? Then stop being so…so inconsiderate!”
She stomped out, trying to slam the sliding glass door, but it caught in the frame as she hauled too hard. With an exasperated huff she left it open and stalked away.
León stared in shock, then burst out laughing. She was expressing herself now!
He held his stomach, howling as she climbed the grassy slope, those swaying pink underwear a perfect punchline. She failed to slam the slider to her house too, and her indignant squeak doubled him over. A moment later, as he convulsed, a door slammed from inside, loud enough that he could hear it. She’d found one that made noise!
He wiped his eyes, gasping. Jesus, he’d needed that laugh.
He sighed deeply. It actually wasn’t funny at all. Just the sight of her trying to slam the door in her underwear, it had been too much. All the emotional ups and downs and lack of sleep had to come out somehow. He shook his head, kicking at her sweatpants on his floor, then walked over to his painting. He was going to have to apologize much better this time. He sort of wanted to paint her mad, though.
Okay. Okay, Tranquilo. Think.
She wasn’t wrong. He’d been acting high-handed. He liked that she wasn’t going to let him push her around. He hadn’t intended to test her limits, but if he was being honest, he’d done it anyway.
And as long as he was being honest with himself—which he clearly needed to do—he had to face something else. This wasn’t just about painting, and he wasn’t glad she was with Andrew. That was straight bullshit.
When he saw her swimming last night, he’d been thinking of a painting, but not this morning. Today, he’d been irritated because what he wanted was to join her on those damn blankets.
That, he’d be keeping to himself.
He couldn’t paint more until tonight, so filled the crawling time with fantastic plans for the ‘Celia’ series in his head. He’d already started her in blues. An angry depiction in reds seemed inevitable now. The obvious continuation was a rainbow of paintings. Yellow submission, her face turned up to him like a sunflower. A blithely nude Celia dancing in a field of green grass, maybe. Celia in orange, reclining in dawn light with that gleaming stripe down her leg. Purple, Celia draped in shadowed and moody shades of dusk. The stories would reveal themselves as they painted.
By sunset, his eagerness was unbearable. He paced the pool house, thumbs tapping against his thighs, but Celia didn’t come out. She didn’t answer his texts either. This apology would have to be stepped up.
He dressed in his nicest clothes, realizing again that he needed some actual nice clothes. He picked flowers from her yard and knocked on her sliding glass door.
She came into view, dressed again in gray. She looked at him blankly, then turned to walk back into her bedroom.
Fine.
He pulled up a chair next to the glass, sat down, and waited.