Acrylics.
The graceful, elegant, aging beauties you pick out in the crowd, or across the cafe, the lines on their faces telling a story you justknowyou’d want to hear, with so many layers and smudges, twists and turns, you’re not even sure where they begin?
Charcoals.
Then, you’ve got the big-picture-beautiful people, with the collection of interesting features that together make a beautiful face. They’re your oil paintings — best from ten feet away and, at the end of the day, kind of funny looking if you lean closer and analyze all their elements separately.
But I’m quickly learning that Chase Croft doesn’t fit any of my categories. He isn’t a brushstroke on canvas, or bumpy layers of paint on a palette, or imperfect lines scratched inside a sketchbook. His features aren’t just gorgeous as a collective — he’s one of those annoyingly attractive people whose every feature is equally stunning.
He’s asculpture.
Painstakingly chiseled into perfection over the course ofyears, until arias could be written about his eyebrows, his cheekbones, the freaking shape of his nostrils.
Andme?
Well, I’m probably a finger-painting.
Done by a three-year-old.
Without supervision.
Anyway, my point is, when my eyes drop to his mouth, I’m annoyed — in a kind of squirmy, breathless way — to find it’s even more attractive than those eyes. And, well, since it’s so close to mine, and since I’m a deeply-flawed human with no control over her libido, I can’t help myself — my eyelids droop a little and my tongue darts out to wet my dry lips, my self-restraint and sense of propriety both fleeing in such close proximity to him.
He notices.
Chapter Eleven
Distraction
An ominous noise rumbles from his throat, and my eyes fly back to his, which seem to darken as I watch. He glances briefly down at my mouth and for one, crazy moment I think he’s going to kiss me again.
“Fuck,” he mutters suddenly, stepping back from me with purposeful strides and returning to his desk with one hand clenched into a tight fist by his side and the other massaging tension from the back of his neck.
I feel his retreat like a blow to the stomach — a flat-out rejection, hitting me hard and sucking the air from my lungs.
Gemma, you idiot. He’s already told you he doesn’t date. He’s warned you away, more than once. Last night was a fluke. Men likethatdon’t kiss girls likeyou.He probably only brought you here to make sure you don’t talk to the press about him, or stir the story into an even bigger media frenzy.
Suddenly, I’m pissed — mostly at myself, for being so affected by this man I don’t even know, just because he’s attractive.
Am I really that weak?
I don’t search too hard for an answer to my own question.
Instead, I take deep breath, staring at him with narrowed eyes, and tell myself to snap out of it.
“Why am I here?”
His eyes narrow too, sensing the abrupt change in my mood. “I already told you. I need some art — a service which, if I’m not mistaken, you provide.”
I flinch at the coolness of his tone, and a scoff escapes my mouth before I can stop it. “Bullshit.”
His expression flattens and his eyes start to glitter with repressed anger. I instantly get the feeling that he doesn’t have much experience with people challenging him.
“Excuse me?” he growls.
“You heard me,” I snap, feeling — foolishly — brave. “We both know you didn’t bring me here to broker pieces of modern French art. So, why don’t you just cut to the chase,Mr. Croft?”
I admit, I tack on the last part just to piss him off.