I nearly opened my mouth to ask what was wrong with my biceps and traps, but then remembered she hadn’t seen them. I’d been fully clothed when we’d fucked in the studio, and I’d changed my shirt while she was in the shower.
“Today, when I met you and you were wearing a suit with no tie… I love that look on a man. You could have been walking the runway somewhere alongside your sister. I can’t believe no one ever tried to get you into modeling.”
Indeed, Riley’s agent had tried to get me into modeling, but few knew that.
“And,” she continued, “as good as you looked then, when I saw you tonight, your hair up in that stupid man bun—”
I opened my mouth, but she shushed me.
“Yeah, stupid man bun. I always thought they were stupid, until I saw you with one. With your hair up like that, paint smudging your chin, an art smock over a casual shirt and then faded jeans and bare feet… You were magnificent. That was Roy in his natural habitat. As good as you looked dressed to the nines, you looked a thousand times better in your element. As an artist. That was the real you, Roy, and the real you is magnificent.”
I sat, awestruck.
This woman had seen me. She’d truly seen me, and I wasn’t talking about her description of my physical attributes. I wasn’t sure anyone else had ever seen the real me with such clarity. Of course she’d never see the inside of my head—that part of me that held secrets I could never reveal, that part of me that haunted me when I let it surface. I’d kept it buried so long, and I’d gotten pretty good at it.
Until my father’s murder.
That had dredged everything up from the deep recesses to the shore again, things I’d learned to ignore, treat as if nonexistent.
Charlie Waters didn’t see that part of me. She saw me on the surface and in the shallow end.
That was a good thing. A very good thing. For what she saw wasn’t an untruth by any means. I was mostly me when I was painting. Business clothes? Maybe I looked good in them, but they weren’t me.
So yes, she saw and interpreted exactly who I was. On the outside and partially on the inside.
The only problem was…
I wanted her to see everything.
I’d finally found someone who moved me in a way I’d never known possible.
And that scared the hell out of me.9CharlieMy lower lip trembled. I desperately hoped it wasn’t enough for Roy to notice.
What had I done?
I’d gone off and rattled out exactly how magnificent he was. Exactly how amazing he looked, but I hadn’t even scratched the surface. I’d touched only on his physical attributes. Roy on the inside was a puzzle. He could say the most beautiful words to me, and then, nearly in the same breath, he could say something completely off-putting.
“Thank you,” he said softly. “Thank you for seeing me.”
“Anyone who looks at you sees you,” I said.
“You know what I mean.”
I nodded.
I knew.
“I’d like you to stay the night,” he said. “I mean, I’d really like you to, but I understand if you need to leave. I understand you have work tomorrow, and you want to make a good impression your first week.”
“I want to make a good impression always,” I said. “I find value in the work I do.”
He smiled then, and I nearly lost my breath at his beauty.
“And you don’t consider it art?”
“Not in the same way your painting is.”
His smile faded slightly. “Tell me about your art, then.”
“I haven’t painted in a while.”
“Have you lost interest?”
“No. Just time. Seems there’s always something more important to get done.”
“Are you passionate about these other things you’re doing?”
Was I? I enjoyed my work. I liked Lacey, and she treated me well.
“It’s not art in the way you mean,” I said. “I enjoy it, but no. My work is not my passion. I don’t think any little girl dreams about being an executive assistant when she grows up.”
He smiled again. “There is art in any job well done.”
“I can see that.”
“What is your passion, silver?”
My insides melted. I’d only met this man today, but when he called me “silver,” something imploded inside me. Something real, and something I’d ignored for too long. Rather, not ignored, but tried to settle for not feeling, if that made any sense.
“You going to answer me?”
“Sorry. What was the question?”
“Your passion?”
You. The word was on my tongue, and I had to stop it from tumbling out. Roy Wolfe could hardly be my passion. He and I had only just met.
Still, I longed to say it.
Instead, “I paint. Watercolors mostly.”
“A beautiful medium. Not one I ever took to.”
“I like the transparency of it.”
“Do you have any work?”
“A few. There’s one in my apartment. Most of them I’ve given away as gifts.”