The Girl in the Painting

Yet, here I am.

One foot after the other, two blocks are gone far faster than they should be.

With cold hands and a nearly frozen nose, I pull my earbuds out of my ears and stand in front of the building, peering through the windows to the right of the entrance.

It looks empty, completely vacant of movement and people, so I nearly jump out of my skin when one of the big wooden doors opens unexpectedly.

A man dressed in a smart suit steps out of the front doors and glances over his shoulder as he pulls a key out of his pocket. “We’re closed.”

“All day?” I ask, and he shakes his head.

“The next exhibit is this evening, but it’s completely sold out,” he answers matter-of-factly. When I don’t acknowledge his statement or take any steps to move away, he glances at me over his shoulder again. “Did you need something else?”

“I’ve already seen his exhibit.”

“Okay…?” He pauses, and confusion creases his brow. “And you wanted to try to see it again?”

What is it I’m trying to do here? See the painting again?

Jesus. I don’t even know.

You want to see him.

That last thought stirs something inside my belly, and the words are out of my mouth before I can stop them. “I…uh…I need to speak with him. With Ansel Bray.”

The guy chuckles. “You and everybody else, sweetheart.”

Sweetheart. Jesus. There’s only one thing I dislike about terms of endearment more than hearing them from my boyfriend, and that’s hearing them from complete fucking strangers.

“It’s really important,” I continue.

I have no idea what I’m doing. I have no idea what I’ll say.

But I can no longer ignore the fact that something is pulling me here.

The guy turns on his heels and scans my face. His brow furrows deeper as he takes in my eyes and my hair and my lips. And just before I attempt to toss out some ridiculous lie to try to persuade him, his gray eyes turn big and wide.

“Well, looks like someone is a liar,” he mutters to himself, slides his key back into the lock, and opens the door. “Come inside and give me a minute to get in touch with him.”

Ansel

“Ansel!” Lucy yells from the front office, and I groan.

She’s blatantly ignoring my request for no distractions, and I have a feeling it’s in direct protest of having to come into work on a Saturday to finalize a contract with a museum in San Diego.

Never mind it’s her own ineptitude that’s forced her here. The contract should’ve been finalized Thursday.

It’s my turn to play the ignore card, and I tap my brush against the side of my large easel three times, my eyes focused while my brain visualizes hues of pink and nude and cream.

“Ansel! You have a phone call!”

I set down my brush and run a hand through my hair. “Goddammit, Luce, I’m a little busy!”

“But it’s Nigel!” she shouts back. “I think it’s important!”

Nigel. I’ve been ignoring his text messages since he scheduled a bunch of phone interviews that I didn’t agree to. Boy oh boy, the mental Post-it note about ways to kill him sure is looking worn.

He better hope he’s calling me for a specific, vitally important reason.

I wipe my palms against my jeans and head toward the main office located at the front of my studio.

Lucy sits behind the desk, her lips pursed into an “I told you so” expression, and I roll my eyes as I grab the phone.

“What?” she chimes in before I answer the call. “No apology?”

I can’t not grin at that. “You’ve got some balls, you know that?”

She flutters her eyelashes dramatically. “So, I’m free to go home now?”

“Did you send the contracts?”

“God, you’re like a tyrant,” she groans, and my grin turns into a full-on smile.

While most days—like today—my assistant is a sarcastic, stubborn pain in my ass, I know for a fact that she is the only person in the world who would tolerate working for me for all these years.

I was a real bastard during those tragic months when I didn’t have my eyes and the vines of despair and bitterness had taken root within my heart, and I’m not all that much better now.

I’ll have to acknowledge her commitment at some point. Maybe some extra time off and maybe some bonus money to finance one of her many cosmetic procedures.

I grab the phone and put it to my ear.

“Hey, Nigel.”

“I know you’re in the studio this afternoon, but…uh…” He pauses, and I don’t miss the way amusement curls around his voice. “The model from your painting—the one that you specifically said doesn’t exist—well, she’s here…”

“Model?” I furrow my brow. “What model?”

“The girl in your painting,” he says, and I can actually hear the smile in his voice. “She’s here. In my gallery. Right now.”

I let out an annoyed sigh. “Stop fucking around, and tell me why you really called.”