All of this filtered through her mind throughout the night, so, when she woke up the next morning, she lay exhausted, even while still in her bed. Her eyes opened. Instead of her almost perfect bed, as if she had slept solidly in one place, her bedding was twisted and turned, with the blankets and pillows everywhere. She groaned, shifted so that she sat up, leaning against the headboard, and pulled her knees to her chest.
Just then the phone rang. She stared at it, almost hating to answer. When she picked it up, Richard was on the line. “How did you know I just woke up?” she asked, feeling confused.
“I didn’t,” he said, “but it’s ten o’clock.”
She gasped in horror. “Oh, my God. I’m late.”
“I don’t think so,” he said. “Remember. You’re the boss. You’re the artist. And you’re supposed to be eclectic, creative, and on your own time frame.”
“I also run a business,” she said. “Other people depend on me, and, therefore,” she added, “I pride myself on being on time.”
“Wouldn’t that be nice?” he asked with a smile. “But today is an exception.”
“Did you get some sleep last night?” She couldn’t help asking.
“Actually, I did,” he said brightly. “Have you had a shower?”
“No, but I had one last night.” She held out her splayed fingers, studying the paint residue critically. It looked like she had done a pretty decent job.
“Good. Tell Graham that you can let me up then.”
“You’re here?” She bolted from bed. “I’m not dressed.”
“I wasn’t planning on coming in and attacking you,” he said with a note of humor. “Get dressed by the time I get there. We can have breakfast.” And, with that, he hung up.
Her intercom rang a few moments later. She hit the button. “Yes, Graham, you can send Richard up.”
His voice was full of laughter. “You’ve got a live one,” he said. “I approve.” And he hung up.
She stared at the intercom in shock. Did everybody feel that she was in need of companionship? She raced back to her bedroom, pulled out a sundress that didn’t need a bra, stepped into white cotton panties, ran a brush through her hair, and quickly twisted it into a knot at the nape of her neck. By the time she was done, there was a knock on her door. She walked over, threw it wide open, and glared at him. “A little more warning next time?”
“If I have time to give you warning,” he said, “maybe.” And he walked in, taking a good look at her face. “Doesn’t look like you had the best of nights though, huh?”
“No,” she said. “Definitely not. Full of nightmares and demons, and, you know, nasty people who cut up others.”
“To be expected,” he said. “Have you got coffee made yet?”
“No,” she said with exasperation. “I haven’t had time.”
“Well, you start warming up the spaghetti, and I’ll do the coffee.”
She watched in amazement as he walked over, studied her big expresso machine, gave a clipped nod, and immediately made coffee. “It took me three months to figure out how to use that machine,” she said crossly.
“Well, if you had called me in”—he gave her a knowing look—“I could’ve told you in twenty minutes.”
By the time the spaghetti was warmed up, she’d already had her first cup of coffee. They took their heated plates and a second cup over to the table set up by the big window, where she normally had her breakfast. The two of them sat opposite each other.
She looked down at the spaghetti. “You’re very pushy, you know? But I forgive you because I’m facing the very same spaghetti I had last night.”
He chuckled. “I’m pushy when I need to be because, the bottom line is, if you want something in life, you have to go after it.”
She froze, looked up at him, and said, “Are you saying that I’m something you want?”
He gave her a droll look. “What do you think?”
“I don’t know what to think,” she said. “Did you plan this last night?” She attacked the spaghetti in front of her.
“Partly,” he said, “if it makes sure that you eat before you head off to your full day, then yes.”
“I have to interview those models today.” She looked at her watch and grimaced, as the phone rang beside her.
He looked up at her.
“I have to at least tell her that I’ll be on my way in an hour.”
He gave a clipped nod. She quickly answered Anita’s call, saying that she just woke up, was eating now, and would be over there soon. When she hung up the phone, she said, “And I still feel bad.”
“Are all these models hopeful of working with you?”
She nodded. “Yes.”
“Then I’m sure they’ll be happy to wait. You didn’t cancel. You just postponed.”
“I know,” she said, “but—” Her attention was quickly diverted back to the spaghetti. She was shocked when she realized she’d eaten the whole thing already. She stared up from her empty plate and looked at him. “How did that happen?”
“Well, for starters, some leftovers are still on the counter,” he said, “but that’s a decent amount you’ve eaten this morning. Come on. I’ll give you a ride.”
“You can’t just spend your life taking care of me,” she muttered.
“Yes, I can,” he said. “Are you painting today?”
“Only to get an idea of skin tones,” she said. “It shouldn’t matter, but, with some of my images, it does.”
“An extra layer of paint?”
“Oily versus dry, extra layers, darker skin versus lighter skin, all of the above.” She hopped up, walked over, grabbed a pair of light sandals, picked up her purse, and said, “Let’s go.”
He smiled at her. “While you were doing that, I put your dishes in the dishwasher.”
“That’s probably no help,” she said. “I haven’t turned that sucker on in forever.”
“Which is why it was empty,” he said with a laugh.
“Exactly,” she said, chuckling.
Shortly
