Determined to be upset with his remark, Madison pushed the cart to the return corral and then got in her van. Before she could pull the door shut, Trigger stepped up and took hold of it. Startled, she jumped and squealed.
“Sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you. There was a can of green beans in front of your tire.” His green eyes were laughing though his expression was straight as he handed her the can through the gap.
Unnerved, she said, “Thanks again,” and tossed the can into the passenger seat.
Trigger pushed her door closed and stood staring at her as if he had something more to say.
“I really should get going. It was nice seeing you, though.” She smiled her fakest smile and raised her eyebrows, still determined that because of that one flippant remark, Trigger Daniels was then and forevermore an asshole. He had to be, right? A sexist asshole, at that.
He pressed his lips into a thin line and nodded curtly, looking down as he thumped his palm on the door. “Right. So, I’ll see you around, huh?”
“I’m sure. Small town and all that.” She started the engine and pulled on her seatbelt.
As she put the van in gear and started to pull away, Trigger appeared in her open window again. “Hey! You’re a sculptor?”
Madison nodded.
“What do you sculpt? I’m wondering because I’d like to commission a piece, if you do that sort of work, that is.” He smiled again, his old confidence back in action and changing his features to downright sexy in a flash.
“Yeah, my sculptures probably aren’t like any you have in mind.” Intrigued by his actions, Madison waited. What did he really want? Was he really after a piece of artwork? Or, was he after something else? If he was after the something else, he didn’t have to use her artwork as a means to an end—he could just come out and say what he wanted. Not that she would be willing to go to bed with him—he was an asshole, after all. She’d already made up her mind on that.
“Oh. Then why don’t you invite me to see some of your sculptures? Let me decide for myself whether or not your work is anything like I might or might not have in mind?” He leaned on the door.
He was so tall that he was eye level with Madison as she sat in the driver seat. And, ooh, those green eyes were wearing at her resolve to think poorly of him.
“Only if you’re serious about wanting a sculpture. If you’re just playing at something here, don’t bother. Okay?” Her words came out more clipped than she’d anticipated or meant for them to come out.
“I am serious. I want a sculpture for…well, I’ll tell you after I’ve seen your work. Is that all right?” He smiled.
“Come by my house,” she quickly scribbled her address on her receipt and handed it out the window to him, “around five this evening and I’ll show you some of my work. We can discuss particulars then.”
After reading the address, Trigger folded the paper and stuck it in his front pocket. Looking soberly at Madison, he shook her hand again. “You have a deal. I’ll be there at five.”
As she drove toward home, Maddy couldn’t get Trigger off her mind. She was smiling at nothing and no one and at everything. Just the thought of Trigger coming to her house, made her smile for some reason.
When she pulled into her driveway and parked the van, Madison was still pretty sure that Trigger was a sexist asshole.
Pretty sure.
Maybe not an asshole, but definitely a sexist.
Nodding agreement with her thoughts, Maddy began unloading the van, still smiling for no reason.
Chapter 3
Setting up her new sculpting supplies in the small attic studio, Madison had a sudden change in idea for the subject. The mental image as Trigger pulled into the parking lot on his Harley—the dark master of the metal beast—had set her creativity boiling apparently and nothing would do except for her to change her sculpting plan.
Foregoing lunch, she worked on the new sculpture. Her muse was in full control now and there was nothing to do for it but ride the wave until it broke or until she finished the clay reproduction. The mini-fridge in the corner kept her from stopping and going downstairs every time she needed another bottle of water, but it didn’t help when the day wore well past lunch and she started craving coffee.
Trekking back upstairs, Maddy carried a thermos of coffee and a takeout box of cold pizza with her. She could work until she needed to go pee out all that coffee, at least, without having to stop again for drinks or food.
As she worked and listened to her music, Madison lost track of time. That tended to happen a lot when she was indulging the muse. It felt good to be working with her hands and imagination again instead of with a bottle and a calculator. Submission to the muse was sublime and she was going to enjoy it.
The familiar thunder of a motorcycle drifted to her through the open attic window. Pausing in mid-stoke as she cleaved extra clay from the front tire of the beast-and-man figurine
, she gasped. Looking to her watch, she saw that the time was five ‘til five. She dropped her tool, tossed a drop cloth over her unfinished work, and ran for the stairs.
Her clothes were filthy from the clay, her newly-dyed hair was piled in a loose, messy bun on top of her head, and she had no idea how bad her face looked. If her hands and forearms were any indication, her face was smudged with clay and her makeup in ruins.