I’m not even tempted to dive into his issues, right now, considering I’m drowning in my own, so I simply nod again and turn my gaze back to the walls. It’s far, far safer to examine the office instead of the man who occupies it — I know this like I know the street vendors outside Fenway Park will rob you blind for a freaking hot dog and a lukewarm beer on a summer day.
I clear my throat. “You’ve got a lot of white, in here. Negative space isn’t necessarily a bad thing — you don’t want to diminish the scope of the room or detract from the view — but with a few key art pieces, you can really complement the room’s overall tone.”
He doesn’t respond.
I walk to the window and look out at the ocean. In the summer, the harbor is packed with boats — we’re so high up, they’d probably look like seagulls bobbing on the water from this distance — but it’s still far too early in the year for sailing. Now, the water’s cold, sea green, and rough with whitecaps. If I squint, I can almost make out the lighthouse at the mouth of the harbor. I focus on it, pointedly ignoring the man at my back, whose very presence I can feel threaded through each particle of air between us.
“What’s your favorite color?” I ask abruptly, still not looking at him.
There’s a beat of silence. “Until yesterday, I’m not sure I had one,” he says cryptically.
I’m so curious, I forget to ignore him. I turn, eyebrows raised.
He hasn’t moved from the desk. His eyes lock on mine, scanning my irises intently. “Today, I’d have to say it’s cornflower blue.”
Wait,what?
My knees actually wobble, going weak like I’m some kind of 16thcentury maiden, swooning at the words of a rapscallion. I quickly lock them back in place, simultaneously trying, and failing, to keep my eyes — which are, coincidentally, or maybenotso coincidentally, the same hue he’s just mentioned — from widening too much at his words.
“Oh,” I say flatly, feeling my pulse thudding out of control. It’s pounding so hard, he can probably see it moving my jugular vein.
His eyes drop to the column of my throat, flashing with some unreadable emotion —yep, he totally sees it— and then flicker back up to mine. “So, what do you have for me?”
“What?” I squeak, my voice helium-infused once more.
His smile goes lazy, but it doesn’t touch his eyes. They’re still a little too intense for my liking. “Art, Gemma. What kind of art do you have for me?”
“Oh,” I say again.Duh, you idiot.“Right. The art.”
His lips twitch.
I pull the portfolio away from my chest for the first time since I walked into his office, belatedly realizing I’ve been using it like a shield. I tilt my head down so he doesn’t see the blush heating my cheeks, and start flipping through the pages like my life depends on it.
“Maybe something abstract, to juxtapose with the clean lines of the space and the furnishings. Nothingtooabstract, though, notcrazyabstract, just abstract enough to offer a little balance.” I’m muttering to myself, flipping through more pages, looking for a particular piece I saw in the binder a few weeks ago. “It has to be masculine, obviously. Bold brushstrokes, strong palette. Maybe a Morellet, but something by Soulages would probably work better—”
“Gemma.”
His voice is low and close. I feel the hair rise on the back of my neck, as I realize he is no longer safely across the room, leaning against his desk. He’s somehow moved without my realizing it. I swear I can almost feel the solid wall of heat his body’s throwing through the sliver of remaining space between us. My mouth goes dry, words evaporating in an instant, and I keep my eyes on the pages in my hands, which are suddenly trembling.
“Yep,” I say breathily, not even managing to convincemyselfI’m unaffected by his nearness.
“Gemma,” he repeats, his voice even lower.
He waits until my reluctant eyes skitter up to meet his. It takes all my self-control not to step back when I see how near his face is — his eyes are millimeters away from mine, two pools of icy, unreadable emotion. I can’t look into them — it’s just too much — so my gaze drops to his mouth instead, thinking it might be easier to focus on.
I’m wrong.
He’s too damn beautiful.
It’s breaking all my rules.
See, I have this theory that humans are just living, breathing, talking forms of art, each crafted with a different technique and carved out of different materials. Each beautiful in their own way. And sure, beauty is in the eye of the beholder, and totally subjective, and changes depending on your circumstance,yada-yada-yada… but most of the time, it’s pretty easy to classify people.
Like, okay, you know those women who are gorgeous and never know it? Or the men who pass quietly through life, handsome and unnoticed, never begging for attention or crying out for recognition?
Those are your watercolors.
And the loud, vivacious, gorgeous-and-they-know-it creatures, with bright lipstick and closets full of bold colors and outfits they never wear twice?