“You want me…” he points from himself to me, “… to go for a bike ride with you?”
I plaster on my best customer service smile and nod my head enthusiastically.
“No.”
“No?”
“Don’t give me those eyes, Emily.” I’m not sure what eyes he’s talking about. I don’t think I am giving him anything other than advice.
“You’re fluttering those eyelashes at me. I can see what you’re doing.” His words make me smile because I was totally doing that to him.
“Why not?” I ask.
With a confused stare, he says, “Why would I not let you flutter your eyelashes at me?”
“No. I mean why won’t you go on a bike ride with me?”
“Because… I’m an artist,” he says rather snobbishly as if that’s some sort of reason not to go.
“Exactly. You should be out with nature getting inspired.”
Louis scowls at me. “I’m a busy man,” he adds quickly. Then he moves away from the kitchen, heading back through the house and outside.
“No, you‘re not.”
His strides are so much longer than mine, I’m almost jogging trying to catch up to him. Louis stops abruptly in the middle of the yard, and I walk straight into him.
“Sorry,” I mumble.
He turns around and looks down at me, fire burning behind those blue eyes. “Excuse me? What did you say?” I don’t think Louis Marchant is used to people challenging him.
“I said sorry because you stopped abruptly, and I ran into you.”
“Before that?” He waves his hand angrily at me.
“Oh, when you said you were busy, and I disagreed with you.”
For some reason, my words render him speechless. I notice a vein on his neck begins to tick. Looks like I’ve pissed him off. Again.
“Do you know who I am?” Louis thumps his chest.
“Yeah, I do.” Those eyes narrow in on me as if to say that doesn’t answer the question, so I continue, “I actually went to your art exhibition in London years ago, when I was in university…” he tilts his head at my change of subject, “… and it was magnificent. You inspired me. The colors. The way they danced across the canvas. I went home and painted some of my best work after that exhibition. So, yes, Mr. Marchant, I know who you are.”
Louis stares at me for a couple of seconds, then turns on his heel and heads toward his studio, the one he’s destroyed.
“But I also know you’re not that busy because you have spent the past forty-eight hours in an alcoholic orgy daze.”
My words stop him in his tracks as his hand reaches the doorknob of his studio.
“You know those women mean nothing to me.” Of all the things I thought he’d say to me, that wasn’t one of them.
“Okay.” Because, you know? Like I care. Not like I haven’t thought about that kiss we had a while ago or anything. I mean, he’s probably forgotten all about it, and he’s replaced my touch with a million others since then.
Louis lets out a frustrated huff and opens the door to his studio, then stops.
“You’ve destroyed most of it in a fit of rage.”
“I know.” His words are quiet and sullen. As he walks through the devastation, he picks up empty paint tins and looks at the slashed canvases. “The problem is… I feel nothing when I come in here. Nothing.”
“What do you mean?” I’m hoping he’ll tell me more, so I can help.
He turns to face me. “All I see is nothingness.”
“What did you used to see?”
Louis frowns as if trying to conjure up something that seems so foreign to him now. “Everything. The world was full of color—” He stops, his attention pulled away by something. He bends down and picks up the canvas. It’s a new painting, one I haven’t seen before. There’s a set of bright yellow lips painted on the canvas.
“Life felt extraordinary.” His finger runs over the lips, and it’s like he’s lost in thought as if remembering a memory of them. “I used to feel free.”
“And you don’t feel free anymore?”
Louis shakes his head, then places the unmarked canvas down on one of the tables. “No, I feel trapped by all of this.” He waves his hand around the studio. “I don’t know who or what I am anymore.”
That comment shoots directly into my chest because I realize he’s given his ex so much power over him.
“Then we need to get away from all of this.” Those blue eyes stare at me in confusion. “Forget about painting. Forget about the exhibition. Forget about being Louis Marchant, the artist, and let’s find out who Louis Marchant, the man, is.”
He eyes me suspiciously. “And I’ll find all this by going on a bike ride with you?”
His question makes me laugh. “Probably not, but it will get you outside in the fresh air and away from this bubble you have cocooned yourself in.” Silence falls between us for a couple of moments, then he lets out a heavy sigh.
“Fine.”
I jump up and down with glee.
“But be warned, I’m not going to like it.”
“That’s okay. Gabriel has already organized a picnic lunch for us.”
Louis’ dumbfounded for a second or two. “You knew I’d say yes?”
I just smile. “The bikes are waiting for us out front.”
17
Emily
We’ve been riding around the local area for what feels like hours, I’m sunburned, my thighs are burning, my butt is numb, and I’m sweating like a pig, but Louis has a smile on his face, and the tension from this morning seems to have lifted a little.
“You look like you could use a break,” he calls out to me.
“Nope, I’m fine,” I reply, even though, in reality, I am ready to die.
“There’s a field coming up on the left, we can rest there. There’s a big old tree you can sit under for shade. You’re as red as a lobster.”
Damn English skin.
It’s not much longer until a beautiful green tree stands atop a hill in the field. We pull our bikes off the road. Louis takes the
