"I like things about it."
"How did you end up here?"
"I didn't. I came for the funeral. Stayed for this."
And he's committed to the class for the rest of the semester. That's almost four months. "To teach Raul's class?"
"And help with the transition at the office."
"Did you come straight from Orange County?" How long will you be here? When do you leave? How much time do I get with you?
"Newport Beach."
"Like Arrested Development."
"They don't really film in Orange County."
"I haven't seen it," I say. "I like dramas."
"The OC?" he asks.
"Is it good?"
"It's not my kind of show."
"But Arrested Development is?"
"I don't watch a lot of TV."
"You're missing out. I watch Gossip Girl, even though it's about people like me."
"Beautiful prep school students?"
My cheeks flush. "Something like that."
"I guess you're the bigger person."
"Do you prefer Orange County?" I ask.
"Some things."
"Which?"
"The Mexican food."
Not the answer I expect, but understandable. We don't have a lot of Mexican restaurants.
"The sunshine."
Less understandable. Max doesn't seem like the type who loves bright days. He's brooding. But maybe that's why he loves the sun. Maybe he needs the light. "I love the winter here. The snow, the decorations, the atmosphere."
"The way the skyscrapers make wind tunnels?"
"Well…"
"Try spending the winter in California."
"Gross."
He raises a brow.
"My best friend… her boyfriend is attending college in Southern California. She's worried the sunshine will win him over."
"It happens."
"But how can a little sunshine be better than this—" I motion to the window. The office is dark, which means our view of the skyline is perfect. The soft indigo of the New York night sky, the grey and blue steel of tall buildings, the pockets and yellow and white light. "The city is alive."
"How did you get here tonight?"
"The subway."
"You stepped off a subway at eight in the Financial District and you're telling me the city is alive?"
"Yes, look—" I move closer to the window and watch the activity below. There isn't as much as there is at, say, ten a.m. on a Monday, but there are people walking home, heading to bars, ordering takeout coffee or gyros, eating standing on the sidewalk. "There's movement everywhere."
"You're one of those New Yorkers?"
"I am."
"Raul loved you, didn't he?"
"He didn't make grand declarations."
"Did he talk about his life?" he asks. "His marriage?"
"I'm not that young."
He raises a brow.
"I know what it means when a man talks about trouble with his wife."
"Not always."
"Usually."
"Did he?"
"No. Why?"
"He was getting a divorce. But I'm sure it started before that." Max shakes his head. "I didn't mean to imply you were a part of it."
But he thinks it. That's what's going unsaid.
What the hell is he going to say when he sees my drawings?
Fuck.
I take a long sip of my coffee. "Should we get to work?"
"I'm sorry, Opal. Truly."
"Because you still think I'm a home-wrecker?"
"Because you're young and you're his student and even if he did have feelings for you, even if you propositioned him, he's the one who needs to act responsibly."
Right. But then we're not talking about Raul anymore. We're talking about him. "He didn't," I say. "He was a gentleman. And that was important with my project."
"How is that?"
"The series… it's self-portraits."
He nods.
"Some are clothed. But others…"
He puts it together.
Some are clothed.
The others are naked.
Chapter Nine
MAX
Fuck me.
I take steady breaths.
I focus on every note of my coffee.
Caramel. Hazelnut. Clove.
The taste of Opal's lips.
No, her lips are sweet from the honey. Is she always that syrupy sweet? Or only when she comes to my office to show off nude self-portraits?
What the fuck is wrong with me?
I'm a grown man. I'm capable of resisting a beautiful woman. Even if making her come is the only way to push the ugly thoughts in my head aside.
That's my problem, not hers.
I top off our coffees and lead her to the office.
She unzips her hot pink backpack, retrieving a sketchbook and a large folder.
"I'm still working out the final form of these," she says. "I've been trying different styles. Oil, acrylic, pastels, digital painting even. I guess that's part of the project. Experimenting." She hugs her sketchbook to her chest. "I only brought two of the originals. The smaller ones. Did you want to start with those? Or with the sketches?"
"What's your vision for the project?" I keep my voice even, as if she's any young artist. As if I'm not desperate to see her naked again.
I'm an artist.
I've sat through a hundred figure drawing sessions. I've seen thousands of depictions of naked women. Erotic depictions even.
That's all this is.
It's not another glimpse of sunshine.
It's not the only light to brighten my darkness.
It's certainly not an invitation to fuck Opal.
"I didn't really start pursuing art until recently. The summer," she says. "My brother insisted I take a class, so I wouldn't have time to get in trouble. Not that I ever got in trouble." She shakes her head he's ridiculous. "I thought an art class would annoy him. Especially one with figure drawing. I mean, me seeing naked men, the horror, right?"