Chapter 27
LILA
Today was meant to be a full day dedicated to my series for the gallery, but how am I meant to get a damn ounce of work done with the image of my husband’s magnificent body burned into my frontal cortex?
With a sigh, I throw my paintbrush into the water-filled mason jar next to my easel and step back to study the painting I've been slowly working on all day at the firehouse.
And I do mean slowly.
With all the chaos of life lately, I’ve fallen behind on where I want to be with this series.
Yesterday, my workday got cut very short after I spilled paint all over myself.
And ever since what went down in the bathroom afterward, I can’t seem to force my mind to focus on anything but the memory of my husband holding my body against his very naked one.
I can't help but shiver at the memory of Fisher’s rippling torso pressed up against me. His heavy-lidded eyes that looked at me like I was a bomb he could detonate with one wrong—or right—move?
“Cold?” Zane asks with a smile. He’s sitting nearby at his station painting glaze on a long-necked vase he fired in the kiln yesterday.
“Oh, no, just…” I wave a hand vaguely at my painting. “Not getting anywhere near the amount of work done I want to be.”
Zane sets down his vase and stands. He walks over to my station, studies my canvas for a few moments through narrowed eyes. “It’s good, Li.”
“But it's not great,” I finish for him.
I’m not being humble; it’s true. The painting has my usual colorful flair and semi-surrealist style, and it's a nice depiction of the city's skyline at sunrise, but ‘nice’ is about the best adjective you could give it. The art is bland. Safe.
Deep down, I know what it lacks is the all-consuming passion I get when I'm inspired. That creative energy that courses through me and makes me totally lost to anything but slicing something open and letting it bleed until I'm wrung out and spent and the page in front of me comes to life.
But damn it, no matter what I seem to do lately, I can’t conjure up that passion for my work.
I’m not sure if it’s because of all the chaos and change with my impromptu marriage and moving into the loft, or because there’s more at stake than ever for my career with this gallery commission…
but whatever the mental block is, I wish it would go away, already.
I’m running out of time to get my shit together and create four paintings that will actually sell.
Zane frowns, his eyes still focused on my artwork. “It needs a sprinkle of that special Lila magic to make it feel like a true Santi creation,” he admits.
I smile at how tactfully he framed his honest feedback. “Agreed.”
“Have you tried working on another project to get the creative juices flowing again?”
I start to shake my head, but as I do so, my eyes snag on the corner of my sketchpad peeking out of my shoulder bag.
The one that contains the picture of Fisher I sketched the other night.
My fingers twitch at the thought of getting lost in it again, pouring myself into refining the lines and perfecting the angles that make up the gorgeous man I’m married to.
I want to work on the sketch until it’s perfect. And then I want to paint him. Bring the image into full, blazing color.
The thought has my stomach flipping in anticipation.
“Li? You okay?”
“I…think I’m going to call it a day. I’m tapped out for today, I think.”
“Same.” Zane nods. “You wanna go to Tommie’s and grab a bite?”
“Can’t, sorry. Fisher’s got his big game in Seattle tonight, I want to get home before puck drop.” And if I leave now, I could be home in time to have an hour to work on my sketch of Fisher alone before I’m meant to watch the game with the girls.
Zane's demeanor sours at the mention of Fisher, but when he catches me looking at him, he rearranges his features into a teasing smile. “Never thought I’d see the day I’d hear you saying things like puck drop.
” He chuckles. “I still don't know what's harder to believe—that you're a hockey fan now, or that you're married.”
“Maybe it’s that I'm now a hockey fan who’s married to a hockey player.” I grin. “You should watch a game sometime. They’re actually pretty exciting.”
“Not my thing." Zane’s tone isn’t unkind, but it’s dismissive. For some reason, this makes me defensive of Fisher.
“Fisher’s good. Like, really good. I’m amazed every time I watch him play. It’s like a form of art in itself—poetry in motion.”
Zane wrinkles his nose but seems to decide against saying anything else.
I’m glad. Because as much as Zane doesn’t like the idea of Fisher, he’d better get used to it.
The people in this collective mean the world to me, but recently, my circle of people that matter to me has expanded.
And regardless of what happens at the end of our agreement, Fisher’s a wonderful person who makes me laugh and has been nothing but a great friend to me.
He has a permanent spot in my circle now.
After I tidy my station and say my goodbyes, I rush back to the loft, anticipation flowing through every part of me at the prospect of working on my sketch of Fisher. But when I open the front door, I have to swallow my disappointment when I find Ally standing by the kitchen counter.
“Hey, girl!” She looks up from the cucumber she’s slicing and smiles.
She’s dressed in a matching sports bra and leggings set, her blonde hair pulled up in a bouncy ponytail, looking like she’s stepped out of an Instagram ad for protein shakes or Pilates .
“I got another teacher to cover my last class of the day so I could get home early. Now we can watch the pregame coverage together.”
I smile back. “Sounds perfect.” It’s not that I don’t want to see her—I love hanging out with Ally, she’s the best—it’s just that now I’ll have to wait until later to channel the creative energy I’m finally feeling.
I open the fridge and retrieve the bottle of wine I bought when I was grocery shopping yesterday.
Maybe a little alcohol will take the edge off the creativity buzzing through my body right now.
Wiggling the wine bottle to get Ally’s attention, I raise my eyebrows in question.
“Great idea.” She nods in approval. “Wine glasses are in the top corner.”
The door to the apartment opens, and Hazel comes in. Her cheeks are flushed, and her curly hair looks wild and windblown.
“I practically ran all the way here from work,” she puffs.
“Well, your timing is perfect for wine,” I tell her.
“Wonderful, fill me right up.” Hazel sinks onto a barstool and reaches for a slice of the cucumber Ally’s chopping.
Ally pushes the cutting board towards Hazel, who snags a few pieces.
Wrinkling her nose, Ally dumps the rest of the cucumber slices into a bowl. “Don’t worry, I’ve ordered real food, too, but I know Hazel cares about her health and Noah will check later if I ate anything green today.”
I burst out laughing. “Biggest game of the season so far and he’s worried if you’re eating your vegetables while he’s gone?”
“Yeah.” A happy little smile dances across her lips. “But no worries, the wings and nachos are on their way.”
My stomach rumbles, reminding me I haven’t eaten all day. Which isn’t ideal for many reasons, but the main one being that when we all curl up on the huge couch together in front of ESPN a few minutes later, the wine goes to my head in about two sips.
On the TV, the commentators are talking about the Lions’ chances for tonight, and I perk up when I hear Fisher’s name.
“Well, I have to say, the biggest surprise of this round has been Archibald Fisher—talk about a hell of a perfect time to play the best games of your career back-to-back,” the one with the mustache says.
Ally cheers. “Go, Fishy!”
“I don’t know, Chuck,” the guy in the pinstripe suit counters. “The kid’s been showing some immense talent under pressure out there, but the chances of him bringing it like that again tonight are slim at best.”
“Boo!” Hazel yells.
I throw a slice of cucumber at the TV. It hits the screen image of Pinstripe Suit square in the face. “Take that asshole!” I say, before blinking in horror at the slimy cucumber sliding down the TV. I turn to the girls, wide-eyed. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know what came over me.”
“Hey, it’s your husband’s TV…and honestly, I think he’d approve.” Ally fires another slice at the screen, giggling, before she side-eyes me. “If Noah asks, I ate the whole cucumber.”
“Obviously.” I take another drink of my wine.
On the screen, the image cuts to a different reporter standing with a microphone, and Ally explains this is where the players all walk in and a few get interviewed before the game.
A couple of guys I don’t recognize are shown walking in first, but before long, Noah, Penn, and Fisher come striding into the frame.
My breath catches in my throat when my eyes land on Fisher looking good enough to eat in his tailored trousers.
“Look at our gorgeous men,” Hazel says proudly.
I don’t say anything, because I’m too busy staring. Noah is broody as usual, dark eyes flickering as he rakes a hand through his hair and keeps his head down. Penn is the picture of casual confidence, seeming at ease with the attention. And Fisher…well, Fisher steals the show.
My heart trips over itself when my husband’s eyes connect with the camera and he smiles the smile of a man who knows he’s a winner. His presence is magnetic, commanding. He’s the type of person who makes people sit up and take notice when he walks into a room.
“What is Noah wearing?” Ally asks, and my eyes reluctantly leave Fisher and move to Noah on the screen.
He’s dressed in a charcoal suit with a dark purple tie. “He looks good,” I say, confused.
“Of course he looks good, he’s Noah Pucking Downsby,” Ally tuts. “What I mean is, why’s Noah got a purple tie on? He should have worn something that works with his autumn colors to make his complexion pop.”
Hazel laughs. “Not this color analysis thing again.”