However, each lunch hour when I’ve ventured into the kitchen, I found treats he’d leave for me alongside the mug I’ve gotten used to using. I haven’t been inside the gallery since my first day here, but I know I’ll need to get back in there again soon.
But today is Wednesday, and its time for me to dive headfirst into an event. I’ve only done smaller showings when I was still in Rome, but this particular show is going to be open to both VIP guests for a couple of hours and then any other ticketed patrons for another two hours.
The dress code is formal. The drinks and snacks cost thousands of dollars. This isn’t some fly-by-night, back-alley art show. This is the real deal, and I’m nervous. The office door swings open, and Julian saunters in with a black garment bag. He’s also carrying a box in his other hand and that stupid handsome smile on his face.
I’ve tried not to look at him in that way, but I can’t dismiss my girly flutters that seem to be present each time he walks into the office. He doesn’t say a word, setting down the box, and hanging the clothing bag against one of the railings meant to hold up coats.
“What’s all this?”
“Your outfit for tonight,” he tells me without looking my way. Shock must paint my expression because when he finally glances at me, he smiles. That fucking smile. “I thought you might want something more formal,” Julian says, his gaze raking in every inch of my outfit. I opted for something a bit more casual, knowing I’m going to be hanging paintings today.
“Thank you.” I push off the chair and make my way over to the hanging bag. Unzipping it, I find a purple dress made entirely of a soft, sheer material. Also on the hanger is a silky negligee I’m assuming goes under the rather see-through dress. “I didn’t expect this.”
“Well, there won’t be any time for you to go home, change, and then return and be here to greet the guests.” Julian turns and heads for the door, and for the first time in a while, I want him here.
“I appreciate it. I have never gotten such a thoughtful gift before.” My words have him halting on the threshold. He doesn’t look anxious, but something in my gut twists.
“Come with me.” He walks away, not waiting for me to follow, so I have to race after him as he makes his way through the enormous house and out the back door. Seconds later, we’re walking through sleek glass doors that take us right into the gallery.
Julian pushes the doors open, and they lock in place, offering an unobstructed view of the space. White walls, light gray floors, and the colorful canvasses that hang in place offer up a contrast with their dark, yet eye-catching color. Deep blues, reds, and purples along with orange and pink leap from the artwork, and I can’t help but gasp.
“This is incredible,” I say as I stop in front of one in particular that catches my eye. The dark circles, along with the lightened center, makes it seem as if it’s an abyss, and you could easily fall into it. The depth, the poignant melding of various hues, captures me, keeping hold of me. “This one, this is . . .” My words falter into silence.
I can feel Julian behind me. His warmth at my back, and for a second, I almost lean into him. I want nothing more than to feel his arms around me, but that’s a ludicrous thought which I push to the back of my mind.
“This one is personal,” he tells me, the heat of his words wafting over my shoulder, leaving goosebumps trailing in its wake. Once more, my body responds to his nearness, and I know as much as I want it, it can never happen. As much as I find myself intrigued by him, wanting to get to know what’s beneath those layers of serious contemplation, I know that being professional is important. But I can’t deny that with each day that passes, I am more and more attracted to Julian.
“I’m . . . I don’t know what to say. I think it’s breathtaking,” I tell him, but I don’t turn, because I know he’s far too close, and if I did face him, we’d be mere inches apart— only a dangerous couple of inches.
“I’m glad you think so,” Julian tells me. I can hear the smile in his voice, and I close my eyes for a second to picture his handsome grin, the same one that sends butterflies flitting in my stomach.
“Have you always painted? I thought you were the critic, not the criticized.” I finally turn to face him, and I was right, we’re inches apart. He’s so close I can see the softness of his lips, the way they shimmer as if he’d just wet them with his tongue. I can make out the gentle crinkles in the corners of his eyes, and I know that if he smiles, they’ll deepen. I’m so close, too close, and when he looks down at me, heat pools between my legs.
“Aren’t we all criticized, no matter what job we’re in?” His question hangs between us with more meaning than I think he intended to show. His dark gaze flits to my mouth when I open it, when my tongue darts out to lick the lower one, and then he watches when my teeth bite down hard on the flesh.
The spicy scent of his cologne engulfs, and I wonder if he can smell my perfume. I ran out
