Chapter Five
Sebastian
She lifted her head to study me, her gaze intent on mine. My heart did a funny flip in my chest. Her skin felt warm and reassuring against mine.
Slowly, she slid her hand from under mine, shoving her damp hair away from her face.
Her smile was awkward as she changed the subject. “What else can you cook?”
I shrugged, leaning back casually in my chair. “You name it, I can cook it—or I’ll find out how to do it. What do you like?”
“Whatever gives me enough energy to deal with the store by day and paint by night.”
I arched my eyebrows. “You need a lot of protein. How do you manage to do it all?”
She sighed. “Caffeine and bills that must be paid every month. Sometimes, being a grownup sucks.”
I took a sip of coffee. “Why don’t you hire someone to manage the store so you can focus on your art?”
“I’ve thought about it, but… I don’t know how the art thing will turn out.”
“Your art is great, Jesse. I’m not just saying that. I loved it before I met you, when I saw your paintings in your father’s apartment. You’re good.”
She looked away with a small smile. “Thanks.”
I tsked. “You still don’t believe me. You suck at receiving compliments.”
She ducked her head, laughing softly. “That I do.”
“Do you have a studio?” I sniffed the air, picking up a whiff of paint and paint thinner. “I’m guessing you do some of your painting here.”
“I do all of my work here. No point in renting another space when sales are iffy.”
I perked up, genuinely excited. “You paint here? Can I see your studio? Or are you one of those mad artists who won’t let me see their work unless I take a blood oath?”
She laughed and pushed back her chair. “I’ve been called eccentric, but I can show you my work without having to kill you... I think.”
I followed her into the small extra bedroom, my flip-flops padding against the wooden floor.
Jesse was barefoot and looked completely at ease.
Her toes—neatly painted in a dark, almost wicked red—peeked out with every step, the color bold against her pale skin.
Even her walk was sexy. Her feet could model for foot porn and win awards.
She opened the door and invited me inside.
“Careful, it’s super small,” she warned. “And don’t be shocked by the mess.”
I stepped inside reverently, as though I was stepping into a museum. Hell, the Louvre had nothing on this place.
Light spilled in through the wide windows, catching on scattered jars of brushes, tubes of paint, charcoal crayons and other art supplies. It should’ve felt chaotic, but instead it was… alive. Every surface carried proof of her hands, her time, her focus.
There were paintings everywhere, from finished watercolors to barely started charcoal sketches, and empty frames she hadn’t had a chance to use yet.
I drifted toward a set of canvases propped against the wall. Four women stared back at me, each one cloaked in a season.
I crouched down, closer. “These are…” My throat tightened. What could I say? Words like beautiful or amazing felt cheap in this place.
Spring was all blush pinks and new greens—like something half-born, reaching for sunlight.
Summer burned gold and blue, daring you not to look away.
Autumn was fire, a hundred shades of red and orange fighting for dominance.
Winter shimmered pale and cold, but not lifeless.
There was something fierce in her, a quiet strength beneath the frost.
I swallowed hard. “These aren’t just paintings, Jesse. You’ve turned time into people. You’ve coded emotion into color.” I gave a soft laugh at myself. “Sorry, that’s the engineer in me talking. But damn, you see the world differently. And you make other people see it, too.”
“Thank you,” she whispered.
This time I knew she meant it.
“Those need to be wrapped and shipped to the people who ordered them online,” she explained.
“They’re incredible.” I reached out, stopping just short of touching Summer. “Are they unique?”
“Each of my paintings is unique. I never make duplicates.”
“How can you bear to part with them?”
She walked over and knelt on the floor next to me.
“I can’t say it’s easy. I’m in love with each piece I create, but art is meant to be shared.
And sometimes, it even pays the bills. Those are the first items in my new collection.
” She pointed to the opposite wall. “I want to try a solo exhibit this year.”
My gaze landed on the paintings she’d finished.
It was a city-themed exhibit with a variety of paintings: cityscapes, walks in the park, drinks in a bar, glamorous women and couples, as well as an array of still-life paintings.
The most eye-catching depicted a pair of red high-heeled shoes next to a spilled bottle of red nail polish, and in a corner a glint of red lace stockings.
I swallowed. My primitive brain pictured Jesse’s long, slender, toned legs in those red stockings and high heels.
I moistened my lips, forcing myself back to this moment. I couldn’t blow this by moving too fast. Not with her. She deserved everything.
I cleared my throat. “How do you even organize an art exhibit?”
Her head turned toward me, and I realized just how close we were. The AC hummed, but in that tiny room it felt useless.
Her eyes lit up, pleased I’d asked. “Basically, there are two kinds of solo exhibits,” she began, counting on her fingers. “Ones the artist organizes themselves, and ones a gallery puts together for you. Since no gallery has invited me yet, I’ll be doing the first.”
She crossed her bare legs, getting comfortable as her voice warmed with enthusiasm.
“I’ll need to find a space big enough for the number of pieces I want to show, but also with room for things like a refreshment table and some seating.
Then comes estimating how many people will actually show up—which is the hardest part.
Because, let me tell you, there’s nothing worse than prepping for weeks only to have five people wander in.
The artist is humiliated, the guests feel awkward, and the whole atmosphere just… tanks.”
I gave her a crooked smile. “Sounds brutal. But that’s marketing, not talent.”
“True,” she conceded with a sigh. “A lot of great artists are terrible at advertising themselves. The best advice I’ve heard is: don’t do a show until you’ve sold a decent amount already.
That way you’ve got people who’ll show up, cheer you on, set the tone.
Another trick is to pre-sell a few pieces so you’ve got those little red dots on the walls.
Makes everything more appealing. And then, of course, you invite absolutely everyone you know.
An exhibit should buzz. Silence is death. ”
I tilted my head. “I’m guessing you also have to talk.”
She blew out a breath, smiling ruefully. “Yeah. Every artist is expected to talk about their work, share clever stories about each piece, describe their creative process. If you’re in a gallery and you can do it well, they’ll love you forever.”
“And that’s hard for you?”
“It’s hard for most artists,” she admitted. “We’re introverts by nature. Some are narcissists, sure, but most would rather hide behind the canvas than mingle.”
I bit down lightly on my lower lip, studying her. “What about you? Can you talk about your art?”
Her gaze flickered to my mouth before locking back on my eyes. A spark shot through me.
“I can’t say I’m comfortable with it,” she admitted. “But I’ll have to. If I want to succeed, I have to push past that. Selling online helps, but it doesn’t compare to the right in-person event. Those are the ones that change things. They can make or break you.”
I leaned in, intrigued despite myself. “Really? It’s that important?”
Before she could answer, my phone rang. Candi’s name lit up the screen.
Perfect timing. I cursed inwardly, because I’d been getting somewhere with Jesse—real somewhere, not just the usual sparring.
“Excuse me a second.” I swiped the screen. “Hi, Candi.”
“Hi, Baby! What do you say about you, me and a bottle of Prosecco for lunch? I’m on my way over.” Her laugh tinkled through the line.
“Uh… I’m not home.”
I could hear her pout. “Oh. Okay. Will you be gone long?”
“No, not long.”
“Did Jilly fix your door?”
I stifled a laugh. “Yeah, Jilly fixed my door.”
“Great. Well, I’ll be there shortly. We… won’t be able to see each other for a few days.”
That meant her old man was heading into town. I was tempted to tell her not to come. But she didn’t wait for me to answer.
“See you soon,” she said.
I rolled my eyes toward the ceiling. “Okay.”
“Tell Jilly I said hi.”
I shoved the phone back into my pocket. What the hell was wrong with me that I was more annoyed than excited about this booty-call invite? It was the first time I felt relief when a woman said she couldn’t see me for a while.
Relief—and something else.
I looked around Jesse’s studio, at the canvases alive with lines and color, and brushes dipped in turpentine. There was nothing shallow here, no fake giggles meant to flatter. Just raw talent. Passion. And so much depth I could drown in it and die a happy man.
For the first time in decades, I wanted more than a warm body in my bed. I wanted this—the mystery, the mess, the contradiction that was Jesse.
That was one scary thought.
I found Jesse in the kitchen nursing a cup of coffee.
I sat across from her. “Candi says hi.”
Her lips twitched. “I heard. I’m Jilly, right?”
“She’s not great with names.” I shrugged sheepishly.
She waved vaguely. “Oh, I’m sure she has other redeeming attributes.”
“She does. She’s very nice.”
“Mm-hm.” She used her fork to doodle in the melted cream on her now empty plate. “Sebastian, can I ask you a personal question?”
“My favorite kind. Shoot.”
“Why do you date women you don’t seem to really connect with?”
I blinked, startled—not because the question was invasive, but because it mirrored the one I’d often asked myself.
“What do you mean by that?”