ChapterFour
Piper
“I want you.”
Oh crap. What did I just say?
“I mean, I need you.” My welding torch, capable of reaching six thousand degrees, has nothing on the heat of my face right now. “I mean, I didn’t mean that.”
“Then why don’t you explain what you do mean.” His voice is frosty, his face an expressionless mask.
Dammit. I did mean it.
I’m an idiot. I don’t know why I was thinking I could show up here after months had passed and he would fall all over himself to speak with me. I thought maybe he cared. I thought we had a moment—more than a moment—but maybe I was wrong. Maybe Ben was right when he said I would never find someone else and no one could want me.
How will I know? How can I tell? I search Oliver’s face, but his eyes are unreadable.
My heart accelerates, my palms slicking with sweat. Now what?
I need another excuse for coming here. I knew this wouldn’t work. I knew I would chicken out. I need another plan.
He’s staring at me while I have my inner panic attack, his eyes dark and unreadable, his lips flat and dispassionate.
Quick. Say something, anything. “I have problem with…”
My brain, obviously. Men in general. Creating any kind of art to fulfill the terms of the contract I signed with him. Lustful thoughts about Oliver and an old couch. Pick a problem—there are plenty.
My nerves a raw bundle in my throat, I blurt out the first thing I think of that’s a partial truth. “I need somewhere to finish the pieces. For the exhibition. There’s no room at Mindy’s, and I have nowhere to, uh, work.”
He frowns. “Don’t they rent artist work spaces for this sort of thing?”
He would know about places like that. They do have rentable studios in literally every borough, dang it. Now I need to elaborate.
Oh, what a tangled web we weave.
“That’s what I’ve been doing, but it’s not working. The co-op studio spaces, they’re too crowded. Too many people and prying eyes, you know. I need a private place.” I swallow, and the words keep going, bubbling out of my mouth like they’ve developed a will of their own—a terrible, awkward will. “I suppose I could go back to Whitby, but I was already struggling there, and, um, with Finley and Archer and now Jake coming home—not to mention all the construction going on—it will be… I’ll be in the way. I’m not sure what to do.”
The last sentence is the full truth. I have no idea what to do. I’m lost. Floundering in the dark. And running out of time. I asked for six months to create a few sculptures. That time has been cut in half, and I still have nothing.
I can’t tell him the full truth of the matter, but maybe I won’t have to. I have the slenderest filament of hope that I can use at least one of the pieces being shipped over from LA—although I can barely remember what I was working on before. Those last few weeks with Ben were like a shadowy nightmare. Now I’ve woken up, but the dregs of the terror have left a gaping hole of numbness, and the will to create has fled along with my sanity.
If I don’t want to lose everything, ruin my reputation, and endanger my entire career all because some asshole ripped my confidence to shreds, I need to get work done. I need to get my mojo back. I was hoping to get my mojo back with Oliver in other ways, as per one of Taylor’s litany of suggestions, but obviously, that’s not happening.
He’s silent, focused on something behind me, the gears shifting behind his gaze as his mind calculates the problem. I catch my breath and use the opportunity of his distraction to check him out. I haven’t seen him in months.
He’s unchanged, still all sharp lines and precise edges, elegantly lean, with dark hair and thick brows. He’s like a sleek jungle cat constantly alert for prey—if a jungle cat wore a bespoke suit and never had a hair out of place. He’s always perfectly coiffed, a contrast to my inner mess. I want to ruffle him up, make him lose that meticulous control he wields like armor.
“Make a list of anything you require, and get it to Carson today. I’ll have something for you by the end of this week.”
What were we talking about? Oh right. I need work space, apparently.
My stomach flips. If he gets it done, that means I’ll actually have to do the work or tell him the full truth. Panic flares, along with frustration. If I can’t create, then who am I?
“Um. Okay.”
His phone buzzes between us, and I glance down. He picks it up quickly but not before I catch a glimpse. The display shows Emma, and the preview of the message is a series of colorful heart emojis.
Something in my chest twists. Of course, he probably gets a dozen different texts like that from a dozen different women every day.