by Dani Rene
It wasn’t long ago that I loved her with everything I had. All the while, I knew she wanted my family’s money and name rather than a husband who loved her. And that’s what breaks me.
Anger overtakes me, but I don’t look at her because I know I’ll tell her to leave. And if I do that, I’m going to break myself in the process. Because as much as I know she hates me now, I realize I never loved her either. Will I live in this guilt forever?
The door slamming is the first indication that my wife has walked out. The sound of the car tires squealing against the driveway is the second. And the silence that greets me seconds later is the third.
And then, I’m alone.
My coffee is gone when I am drawn back to the present. Turning, I head to the kitchen. It’s been so long since she walked out, but her absence is still so evident in this house. She hated everything about it, always complaining that we couldn’t move closer to the Quarter. She wanted a life filled with the nightlife that Bourbon Street offered, but I couldn’t leave my family home.
This was my life, and Shay couldn’t understand it. She was too young for what I needed, and that was my first mistake. I won’t be making that again. The moment the thought enters my mind, so does Nea. As attractive as she is, she’s young, just like Shay was.
And even if she wasn’t, she’s my employee, and one thing that I pride myself on is my professionalism. That’s what I need to put my focus on.
Chapter 6
Nea
I’m ready. Almost. I think. I’m so nervous I’ve been up since five thinking about what’s going to happen today. Even though I have the experience, every gallery has its own set of rules, and Mr. Elliott seems to live by a completely different set of rules altogether.
I’ll show him that I’m not some frivolous girl who’s only here to party. His judgment of my tattoos and perfume yesterday was disarming. I don’t mind someone who sets out rules, but he was more of an arrogant asshole than anything else.
He’s not the easiest person from what I gathered through our interaction yesterday, and I’m sure he likes things done a certain way. All I can hope is that I don’t piss him off. I’ve opted for long, black pants with a soft-pink blouse that buttons up in the front. The sleeves are capped, so they don’t hide who I am. If he can’t accept it, then we’ll be at odds. Even though the artwork that snakes along my arm is representative of my job, I’m not going to be around clients, so he has no need to worry about appearances. Not yet, anyway.
I was of two minds about the perfume. I’m testing him because I did spritz a few wisps on my neck and my wrists. Now, all I can smell is the freaking apples that he mentioned he hated. Well, he didn’t say hate, but the frustration in his tone spoke volumes. I’ll happily obey any work regulations, but if he acts like an asshole, I’m not going to stand by and have him order me around.
If he wants me to wear something specific, he can issue a uniform. And my perfume doesn’t change how I do my job. Since I know we won’t be working closely together from what the advertisement mentioned, I don’t see how it’s a problem.
As I make my way down the long, tree-lined driveway at seven-forty-five, I can’t help my stomach tumbling with excitement. The prospect of having a job already has me nervous and anxious. I can’t believe he gave me the job on the spot.
The sun is high already, beating down on the lush green grass and the colorful flowers that line the porch. The white siding of the house seems far too bright. The shutters on the windows are dark blue, open, offering a glimpse of the curtains that close off the interior from the exterior.
I reach the door, lift my hand, but before I can knock, it swings open, and I almost fall into the house. The man on the other side regards me with narrowed eyes as I look up into those dark depths that hold so much pain my breath is stolen.
“You’re early,” he grits, frustration evident in his voice, but I don’t allow him to bring me down. The morning was crisp and welcoming, and I allowed myself to enjoy the sunshine, and the dark, stormy cloud he’s got following him around won’t get to me.
“I know.” I straighten my spine, square my shoulders, and await the gruff tone to tell me off, but instead, he nods before stepping aside and allowing me to enter.
The moment I brush past him, my senses are on high alert as the scent of his cologne, something like a forest in the middle of a rainstorm, engulfs me. It’s madly rough, just like him, and yet I can’t inhale it deep enough.
“Follow me,” he says after he slams the door shut, causing me to jump. He doesn’t take note of my nervousness; instead, he walks ahead, and I follow him down a long hallway toward the back of the large house. We reach a white painted door, which Julian opens, and on the other side is an office that looks like it’s outdoors.
The windows are high toward the ceiling, giving off an illusion of height to the room. The patio doors are open. They lead to the lush greenery beyond, beckoning me to go there, but I know I’m meant to be focused on my job.
The floors are tiled in a soft gray color, and the desks and chairs, two of each, are light wood. Everything about this room is the complete opposite of Julian Elliot. Two bookshelves fill one wall, and I notice all the spines are coordinated by their color.
“This will be your desk,” Julian says. He’s still not greeted me, and I don’t feel the need to be overly friendly if he can’t even share common courtesy. “I’ve put all the information for next week’s event here,” he tells me as he gestures to the stack of pages I know will take me all day to go through.
“Thank you.”
“Once you’re done with that, I’ll take you through to the gallery, and we can talk about how to set up the artwork.” He doesn’t meet my eyes. Instead, he moves about the room, shoving a chair under the desk I’m guessing is his. “I’ll be out for an hour to grab some food. If you want coffee, water, or juice, the kitchen is free for you to use. Just don’t venture anywhere else in my house.” His tone is gruff, a warning laced in every word.
“I’m not a snoop,” I bite out without thinking. Snapping my gaze to his, I half expect him to be angry; instead, he’s grinning. I’m not ready for that this early in the morning because, if I had to be honest, my new boss is a hottie. As Phee would say.
“Good.” He nods and heads for the door.
I set my purse down along with my laptop bag before I look at him and ask, “Is there an internet connection I can use?”
He stills at the door as if that’s something he hasn’t even considered. I can’t work and send emails if I’m not connected. He should be able to understand that.
“The password is on your desk. There’s nothing else you’ll need,” he informs me before disappearing out the door, leaving me in my new office.
My fingers itch to explore the room, to check out the books that are so expertly aligned, but I don’t. Like I said, I’m not a snoop, but I can’t deny that curiosity has taken hold of me. Perhaps a coffee will settle the inkling.
Moving through the house on my own is daunting because it’s big. Like, so big I could easily get lost. I love the white walls and the light gray tiles. Throughout, there are dark throw rugs that give the spaces contrast. The furniture is functional, comfortable, not what I expected to find. Most people who have money tend to go for the modern, sleek, silver, and glass furnishings rather than focusing on comfort.
In the kitchen, I open cupboards until I find mugs. Grabbing one, I set it under the Keurig, thankful I know how to work the damn machine. The last thing I want is for Julian to return to a kitchen floor drenched in coffee or boiling water.
As I make my way through the hallway again, I’m tempted to veer off and sneak a peek at what’s behind the multitude of doors. I’ve always been a curious person, and when someone told me not to do something, I always ended up doing it anyway.
I don’t think of it as snooping, but learning about your surroundings can be a good thing. At least, that’s what I tell myself. I focus on the office a
nd settle behind my new desk to work.
With a smile, I pick up the batch of pages that have been printed for me and start getting to the details, hoping that before Julian returns, I’ll have finished. That would impress him.
I don’t hear him enter the room. My focus is on the words in front of me as I circle names, add minor pricing changes, and tweak the information he has with a pencil.
When he sets down a large Starbucks mug, I practically leap into the air, sending the pencil flying. The gentle sound of it falling on the rug steals the silence for a second as our gazes lock.
“I figured you might like a coffee,” Julian tells me.
“Thank you,” I say, nodding slowly. I can’t help but notice how handsome he is, which is completely unprofessional. He bends to retrieve the pencil, setting it on the desk in front of me, and I take note of his hands. The veins protrude, and I notice the splotches of color on his fingers. “Are you hurt?” The question tumbles from me before I can take it back. And when I lift my eyes to his, he offers me a small smile.
The buttons of his shirt are open, and my eyes inadvertently drink him in. The way his collarbone moves and the way the muscles of his shoulders tense and release. Every dip and peak I can see from my viewpoint have me wanting to see more. He looks like he’s been sculpted from the finest marble.
“No, I was painting last night,” he says, shocking me. I didn’t expect him to share something about himself, and the thought of him in a studio, splashing paint across a canvas, takes hold of me.
Tipping my head to the side with interest, I ask, “You paint?”
“I thought you would’ve done your research,” Julian snips before turning to leave me in the office once more. I want nothing more than to snap at him. His cold demeanor is going to get to me. I’ve never met someone so angry all the time.
“If there was something about you online, I would’ve. But there isn’t.” My biting tone has him stalling on the threshold. He glances at me from over his shoulder, his eyes practically digging through me, trying to burrow themselves into the very heart of me.
“Is that an admission to you googling me?”
My cheeks heat at his question. I shouldn’t have said what I did, but this man truly is bringing out the brat in me. He doesn’t move, waiting for an answer I don’t want to give. But I know I’ll have to because I’ve already admitted to it.
“I needed to know the person I was coming to interview with,” I tell him, sitting back in my office chair. “And normally, it’s far more interesting than anything I found on you.”
“I like my privacy.”
“That you do because all I learned before I walked in here yesterday was that you had inherited this historical home from your father. The gallery included, and you’re one of the most brutal art critics in the world.”
That makes him smile. Even though my anger has taken hold of me, I can’t deny the man is attractive— the perfect Adonis, with the worst temperament.
“That’s all you need to know.”
Chapter 7
Julian
This is ridiculous.
She’s my employee, and yet all I can think about is bending her over that desk and showing her just how creative I can be. Her gaze heated every inch of me. I could feel her like she was practically touching me. Her gentleness, those delicate fingers, and those plump lips that shimmer with gloss had every nerve in my body alive.
Since Shay, I haven’t really looked at a woman. I haven’t even considered having someone in my house, seeing her daily, and talking to her. Opening up to someone isn’t what I do. I didn’t even do it with my wife. Why the fuck would I do it with a stranger?
This is utter fucking bullshit. I move into the studio and shut the door, hoping the loud bang will ensure she doesn’t follow, but even as I think it, the canvas she inspired glares at me, reminding me of what I felt last night.
I haven’t had a muse in so long I feel lost at the thought of actually having someone inspire my creativity. The last time I truly felt connected to someone in that way was when I was in college. A long fucking time ago.
Picking up the painting, I set it on the floor against the wall and grab a new, empty canvas, placing it on the easel. A new, blank page to tarnish with the color splatters I’ve become known for. Only, the last time someone saw any work of mine was almost ten years ago. My father made sure my art was exhibited in the gallery, and they sold like hotcakes. Each time he had an event, they would sell out, and that’s how he knew I had talent.
But with talent comes fame, and that was the last thing I wanted. I always preferred being in the dark. Hiding away from the bullshit the media would spew, I learned early on it wasn’t worth it. So, instead of taking it on the chin like celebrities usually do, I pulled back and hid.
I wanted to be different. I focused on writing reviews and put my paintbrushes away. When people started asking for my work, my father had to tell them I’d retired my career. There were rage and confusion, but after a year, they diminished and forgot about me.
I pick up the palette after squirting enough paint to start something fresh and grab my brush. Dipping it into the shimmery color, I create a circular shape on the white material. My hand continues its movement, round and around until the black is glaring at me.
When I finally come to a stop, I take a step back and tip my head to the side. Quickly, I dip the bristles into another color before continuing on the pattern of the black. The shades swirl together, creating a distinct shade that I haven’t made before. It reminds me of a dusky sky. The tones taking over as they blend and meld, and when I finally look at it again, there’s a familiar image coming to play. Black and purple, circular, like the wide eye of someone who’s captured my attention.
Setting the palette down, I sit on the stool and consider what to do next. A background, perhaps more shading on the round, eye-looking image. Or do I leave it as it is? Perfect in its simplicity.
A knock at the door bounces into the room, causing me to groan at the thought of seeing Nea again. Even though I have to admit I’d like to look at her pretty face, when I’m working, I hate being disturbed.
But she doesn’t know you’re working. The thought flits through my mind, and I have to remind myself she’s not Shay. And I certainly can’t blame her for what someone else has done.
Rising, I make my way to the door and pull it open to find a wide-eyed beauty looking up at me. I notice she’s wearing flat shoes, only because she’s even shorter than she was the day she walked in for the interview. She only comes up to my chest, and that was in heels. She’d be so easy to lift into my arms, press against the wall. What the fuck?
“What?” I ask, shaking my head to clear my wayward thoughts.
“I was going to grab some lunch,” she says. “Would you like anything?”
“No.” The word comes out colder than I anticipated, and I notice her wince. I should try to be nicer, but having someone in my space is new to me. Perhaps in a week or so, I’ll get used to her. But right now, her fucking perfume has intoxicated me, and I can’t stop thinking about tasting it on her smooth, creamy skin.
“Okay.”
“I told you not to wear that godforsaken perfume again,” I grit through clenched teeth just as she walks away from me. Her body goes rigid. She stops, and I notice her small hands fisting at her sides before she glares at me from over her shoulder.
“I forgot. I woke up in a good mood because I was excited to come to my first day at a new job. But since you’ve decided to talk to me like I’m nothing more than shit under your shoes, perhaps I should find something else.”
I don’t say anything as she marches angrily down the hallway to the office. Moments later, she passes me with her purse and laptop bag. She doesn’t say anything, not even a fucking goodbye.
The door slams seconds later, and then silence meets me. It slaps me in the face as a reminder of the last time I was left alone. When my wife walked out and never returned. All
that did come from her were regretful memories.
Shit.
Rushing to the door, I snag the handle and tug it open with a whoosh. Nea is already halfway down the drive, and I have to run after her to catch her. The moment I reach her, I grab her arm, spinning her on her heels. Under the leafy drive, I take her in. The gentle sunlight streams through the canopy overhead, making her eyes shimmer like gemstones, and the memory of the painting hits me square in the chest.
“I’m sorry,” I tell her. I never apologize. I’ve never needed to because everyone who knows me knows I’m an asshole. I make no apologies for it because it’s who I am, and I’m not going to change anytime soon. What’s the saying? "You can’t teach an old dog new tricks”?
“Sorry for?” she asks, tipping her head to the side and folding her arms across her chest, which immediately catches my attention. The soft, luscious mounds of her tits tease me from the neckline of her blouse.
Clearing my throat, I lift my gaze to hers. “For being an asshole. You’ll have to get used to it because it’s just who I am.”
“I’ve met assholes, and then there’s you,” she bites out, her confidence making my body turn hot with the need to spank her pert little ass. God, I’d love to have her bent over in front of me. “Are you even listening to me?”
Her gritted question slaps me back to reality. “What?”
“Ugh,” she growls, and it’s the cutest fucking thing I’ve ever seen. I want so badly to kiss her, to touch her skin, to feel if it’s as silky-smooth as it looks. I notice she doesn’t have any makeup on, and I can’t help but admire that her beauty is natural. Jesus, I need to get laid.
“I just need help with the gallery,” I tell her, trying to keep the conversation away from my errant thoughts.
