“I appreciate it. I have never gotten such a thoughtful gift before.” My words have him halting on the threshold. He doesn’t look anxious, but something in my gut twists.
“Come with me.” He walks away, not waiting for me to follow, so I have to race after him as he makes his way through the enormous house and out the back door. Seconds later, we’re walking through sleek glass doors that take us right into the gallery.
Julian pushes the doors open, and they lock in place, offering an unobstructed view of the space. White walls, light gray floors, and the colorful canvasses that hang in place offer up a contrast with their dark, yet eye-catching color. Deep blues, reds, and purples along with orange and pink leap from the artwork, and I can’t help but gasp.
“This is incredible,” I say as I stop in front of one in particular that catches my eye. The dark circles, along with the lightened center, makes it seem as if it’s an abyss, and you could easily fall into it. The depth, the poignant melding of various hues, captures me, keeping hold of me. “This one, this is . . .” My words falter into silence.
I can feel Julian behind me. His warmth at my back, and for a second, I almost lean into him. I want nothing more than to feel his arms around me, but that’s a ludicrous thought which I push to the back of my mind.
“This one is personal,” he tells me, the heat of his words wafting over my shoulder, leaving goosebumps trailing in its wake. Once more, my body responds to his nearness, and I know as much as I want it, it can never happen. As much as I find myself intrigued by him, wanting to get to know what’s beneath those layers of serious contemplation, I know that being professional is important. But I can’t deny that with each day that passes, I am more and more attracted to Julian.
“I’m . . . I don’t know what to say. I think it’s breathtaking,” I tell him, but I don’t turn, because I know he’s far too close, and if I did face him, we’d be mere inches apart— only a dangerous couple of inches.
“I’m glad you think so,” Julian tells me. I can hear the smile in his voice, and I close my eyes for a second to picture his handsome grin, the same one that sends butterflies flitting in my stomach.
“Have you always painted? I thought you were the critic, not the criticized.” I finally turn to face him, and I was right, we’re inches apart. He’s so close I can see the softness of his lips, the way they shimmer as if he’d just wet them with his tongue. I can make out the gentle crinkles in the corners of his eyes, and I know that if he smiles, they’ll deepen. I’m so close, too close, and when he looks down at me, heat pools between my legs.
“Aren’t we all criticized, no matter what job we’re in?” His question hangs between us with more meaning than I think he intended to show. His dark gaze flits to my mouth when I open it, when my tongue darts out to lick the lower one, and then he watches when my teeth bite down hard on the flesh.
The spicy scent of his cologne engulfs, and I wonder if he can smell my perfume. I ran out of the house this morning, spraying myself in the scent he mentioned he hated, but even so close, I don’t think it’s because he hated it at all.
“It depends on the job,” I tell him. “Most people don’t allow critics to get to them, but then, there are those who are tormented by the utterances of fools.”
Julian’s hand comes up to my chin. He pinches it between his thumb and forefinger and tips my head back just so, enough for him to lean in and whisper his lips along my own. My body shivers, a trickle of desire making its way up and down my spine and tingling between my thighs.
“I want—” His words are broken off by the shrill ringing of his cell phone, which causes both of us to jump back in surprise. “Hello,” he says into the speaker, turning away from me, leaving me trembling from his touch. The heat he seared me with is still raging through me, and I have no way of understanding what that was or even what he wanted to say.
I turn to the painting once more, taking in the circular shape, the colors, everything about it. But I can’t tell why it would be personal to him. I understand that most artists paint their feelings, they focus on themselves or people in their lives, and this has so much pain in it, but as you circle into the core, there’s light.