She walked over to where I stood at the desk and placed her palm on my painter’s smock.
“Please,” she flashed her wide-mouthed smile.
I heard her clacky heels following behind me.
I’d already grabbed a water from the fridge by the time she made it to the kitchen. I leaned against the doorframe when she came in.
“We drink together?” she pouted her lips in that way women who know how to use their looks always pouted. The way that makes most guys drop to their knees, tongues hanging out, and start begging and promising the world and anything else they can think of. She wasn’t getting it.
“Sorry, Isabella. I’ve got a ton of work to do before the sun goes down.”
“Is good, having so much work, no?”
“Yes.” I said flatly. I could tell she had no intention of moving from where she stood, hand on her cocked hip.
Fine. If she wanted to play games, I knew my way around the board. I raised an eyebrow and waited her out. My guess was her next move would be a hair flip.
She raised an eyebrow.
That was her tell. The hair flip was seconds away.
Wait…wait…
Oh! There it goes!
She tossed her lustrous main around with spectacular grace.
Hair flip!
I’m sure she’d practiced that move for photo shoots a hundred times. She finished by tilting her chin down, another camera-ready pose. She really had nice eyes.
I didn’t care. It was Game Over time.
I turned and walked into the entryway and opened the front door.
I heard her pout again. This time, it was the real pout. The frustrated kind that sounded like a little girl not getting her way. When she walked out of the kitchen, she looked a bit sulky. I felt sort of bad, but she
What could I say? Old habits died hard. This shit was regular as breathing to me.
Isabella stopped on the runner in the entryway and eyeballed me again. Was she not getting the hint? She had it bad.
I motioned outside with my arm. “After you.”
“Your tattoos are very sexy.”
I already knew that. “Thanks.”
Finally, she walked outside.
I would be a completely rude dick if I didn’t open her car door for her. We walked to her shiny Jetta together. When she clicked the alarm, I opened the door.
“You are very gentleman,” she said in her lusciously accented broken English.
“Always,” I smiled.
“Maybe next time, we eat lunch, yes?”
“Maybe.” How many more sessions did I have with her? I’m thinking one too many. I sighed. At least she was easy on the eyes, and her painting would sell for a bundle to some shallow rich schmuck who didn’t look beyond the surface. Business was business.
Isabella stuck her hand out her window as she drove off and waved at me with her $400 nails. “
I shook my head when she was gone. Poor thing. I’d have to ugly myself down for her next sitting, keep her in line. Maybe I could wear a pair of those classic novelty glasses with the big nose, bushy eyebrows, and Hitler mustache. Maybe that would tone her flirting down.
Mental note: buy novelty glasses ASAP.
I chuckled, because I was seriously considering doing it. Sure, she’d see right through the disguise, but I’d be willing to bet she’d think I was two handshakes away from being a serial killer after that. It
Samantha, on the other hand, would probably think it was hilarious. Maybe Brandon was right. Maybe I did need to paint Samantha.
But I didn’t think I’d get her to sit nude.
Then again, the Mona Lisa wasn’t a nude. Neither was the Girl with the Pearl Earring.
It could work.
I walked back into the house. In the living room, I opened the liquor cabinet and poured myself an inch of bourbon, straight up. After my long day in the studio, I needed to unwind.
I threw back the entire glass in one long swallow. I poured myself another inch and walked into the studio.
The painting of Isabella was coming along faster than I’d expected. Most of it was still rough, but the face was finished and was as flawless as Isabella’s. My technical mastery of oil paint was clearly evident.
The only problem?
It wasn’t doing anything for me. Sure, her face looked photo-real, but it was lifeless. I’d captured her pouty, full lips, her sultry eyes, her delicate jawline. She looked textbook sexy, which meant boring sexy. Cardboard. Cookie-cutter.
There was no spirit to the painting.
I’m sure I could sell it to some pin-up art collector for ten grand. But that would be taking five steps backward with my pricing. The painting of Isabella needed to go for at least $80,000 if I was going to build my name. Not $10,000, of which I’d get $5,000, meaning $3,000 after taxes, another $500 for supplies, leaving me with $2,500, which was not worth the weeks I would end up putting into it by the time I was done.
I gulped down the rest of the bourbon in my glass.
Maybe the painting would come together when I finished her body.
I went into the living room to pour myself more bourbon.
Chapter 15
SAMANTHA
Romeo and I walked into Professor Bittinger’s class extra early. I wanted to get there long before the woman had reason to give my grief.
The room was empty when we arrived, so Romeo and I set up on sculpting tables next to each other, pulling out our sculpting tools and armature wires from the previous class.
“Do you think Hunter will be back today?” Romeo asked as he peeled clay off of his armature.
I did the same with my clay, preparing my wire stick-figure for today’s sculpting. “Yeah, he told me he’s going to be here all quarter.”
Romeo frowned. “When did he tell you that?”
“When he followed me to my car after the first day of class.”
Romeo’s face lit up. “Hunter is stalking you? You lucky bitch!”
I rolled my eyes. “You can have him.”
“I think I’d need to get breast implants first.” Romeo pushed his chest muscles together with the palms of his hands. “I’d have awesome cleavage, don’t you think?”
“Are you saying you would go girl, just to get Hunter? I mean, have a sex change operation?”
Romeo rolled his eyes dismissively. “I may be gay, Sam, but I’m not crazy. I would never behead my Little Romeo.” He patted his crotch affectionately. “Poor little guy, Sam here would have you sliced off with one of those little cigar-cutter guillotines. But she totally didn’t mean it,” he looked at me pointedly, “did you Sam? Tell him
