Liam spoke with the girl in the overalls who’d let us in, while I focused on the model in the middle of the room.
She was completely naked.
Lying on a burnt orange chaise, she had one hand draped overhead, and the other softly caressing her supple breast. Though it was hot, goosebumps pebbled her skin, and her smoky gray eyes were lost in space, focused somewhere in the distance.
She seemed to be living in her own little world, one where there weren’t a dozen pair of eyes cataloging her every feature.
“Ten minutes,” I heard the girl tell Liam. And then he pulled her a little away from me, whispering something in a hushed voice. I imagined he was telling her about my hand, about my insecurity, because she glanced over her shoulder at me with a reassuring smile before nodding at Liam that she understood.
Not too long after, the host announced in Italian first and then English that the time was up for this model, and that I would be the last one. With the help of a few of the male artists, the chaise was removed, the artists moved in closer, the center ring much smaller than it was before.
“This is Harley,” she said when the furniture was rearranged, smiling at me before she waved me to the center of the room. “Our hand model for this magical evening.”
All the artists in the room greeted me with warm smiles, and I tried to return them as I took my place in the center of the room. Instead of a chaise, there was a simple chair and a small table. I took a seat, closed my eyes, and then withdrew my hands from under the table.
I heard it, the brief silence followed by the soft vibration of everyone taking a breath at the same time when they saw my hand. Panic zipped up my spine, and when I tried to find Liam, he wasn’t standing where I’d left him. My breath came even shallower until I finally found him.
He was sitting at one of the artist stations with a sketchbook in front of him.
“I’m right here,” he mouthed, giving me a nod.
“Go ahead and take your posture,” the host instructed me. “Don’t force it, just do whatever comes natural.”
I inhaled, looking down at my hands before I closed my eyes and exhaled.
Relax, I told myself.
My rigid spine eased, my rib cage loosened its grip on my lungs, and then I sank a little deeper into my chair, crossing one leg over the other and propping my right elbow on the table. I rested my chin in the nook of my right hand then, the pinky and thumb framing my jaw, and my left one spread out on the tabletop as I found something to focus on.
My eyes landed right on Liam.
In the next instant, the room came alive with the sound of pages turning, pencils sharpening, chairs scraping against the hardwood floor as the artists got situated. The host turned up the volume on the record player in the corner, and then the room filled with the sounds of classical music, sweet and calming.
I felt all the eyes in the room on me like hot coals, and the urge to wiggle away from the burn was so strong I didn’t know if I could fight it. But anytime I’d start to feel like it was too much, Liam’s eyes would flick up from his sketch to me, and he’d hold my gaze until I felt calm again.
It’s like he knew without me even saying a word.
I found myself committing this image to memory — the high ceilings of the house, the antique chandelier hanging above us, the flicker of the candles around the room, the deep browns and reds that made up the interior.
Most of all, the way Liam’s eyes peered over the top of his sketchbook and into mine.
Strands of his chestnut hair framed those dark eyes, and they disappeared only brief moments at a time to look down at his sketch before they were on me once more. His lips were relaxed, but every now and then, he’d chew his bottom one — usually when he was erasing something in his drawing.
I cataloged every feature as I stared at him, as much the artist as I was the model. I knew the moment I was alone, I’d paint this. I’d paint the candle flames dancing behind him, the shadows covering his face, his damp hair falling in front of his eyes, the stark lines of his jaw and his nose, the intricate stubble on his chin.
The more I focused on how I would paint him, the less I cared that everyone in the room was drawing me. It was almost a meditative state, an out-of-body experience, and before I knew it, the host lowered the music gently, waking us all from the spell as we blinked and stretched and looked around at each other with sleepy, satisfied smiles.