by Nora Flite
"What?" I blurt, startled by this new turn of the wheel. Marshall is silent for a beat, like he might say more, but chooses not to. His hard heels clack on the floor when he turns and makes a quick walk towards the exit. "Marshall! Wait!"
How am I not what he expected?
How could he expect anything when we only just met yesterday?
It's still cold outside, the air soothing me, but not clearing my head. Marshall is handing off his teacup to Min who is waiting beside the car. She looks at me, lips crinkled, eyes uncertain. Did she sense something was wrong with Marshall?
"It was nice to meet you," she says, taking my cup from me as I pass.
"Yes, same, and thank Bradford for me. He's doing way more for me than he should." I start to follow Marshall into the car, but Min puts her hand up, stopping me.
"Don't overthink it," she tells me flatly.
"I ... sorry?"
"Bradford." She glances at the car, lowering her voice. "Whatever you make, he'll be happy. Don't get stressed over it."
"Getting stressed is what I do. Who wouldn't, in this situation?"
Min looks inside the car, fidgeting. "It's important you finish the art, nothing else should matter." I think she's going to say something else. She bows her head, clasping her hands at the small of her back. "Hope to see you Friday."
"Friday?" I ask, but she's backtracking into the Ramette House. For a moment I stand alone on the sidewalk. The wind tugs at my hair, ruining my coiled bun, toying with my ears until they burn from the chill in a way that reminds me of the heat of Marshall's whispers.
Chapter 7.
"Why are we here?" I ask, staring up at the massive mall bustling with people. There are numerous Christmas trees, not to mention over-sized ornaments dangling from every level that the escalators pass.
Marshall gestures for me to follow. "You need supplies for your show."
"Okay," I agree, having trouble focusing on him when the lights, sounds, and smells of the huge shopping mall assault me. I keep whipping my head around to gawk at the sights. I was never one to shop, and my family blessedly did not drag me along when I resisted. More than that, it feels different to be wandering through such a cheerful atmosphere at the side of a man like Marshall Klintock. "Maybe a smaller art store would have been faster? This place is packed."
"Yes," he says, stepping onto an escalator; I join him. "But we need some other things an art store wouldn't have."
"Like?"
Grinning, he looks up at the glass ceiling, leaning on the escalator railing. His coat hangs open, showing how his shirt strains over his muscular chest beneath. I try not to stare, instead following his eyes upwards. "There's more to making your mark on the world than just skill. You should know this, Ms. Hark.""You're talking about socialite crap."
"Wow, what a mouth."
Rolling my eyes, I follow him onto the second level. "I know all about the idea of presentation. My parents were sticklers for making sure my siblings and I dressed in high end clothing when we'd be at an event."
"Your siblings," he says thoughtfully. "Are they anything like you?"
"God, no," I laugh. "Xalay is the baby, and even at 17, you'd think she was 12, she's such a brat. Celline only cares about being popular online. Katy is the personification of refined. And Willbur ... well."
"Well what?" he presses.
"Nothing. He's just different in a way that's not like me and not like them."
"Tell me how."
He speaks like it's a demand. I pull up short, eyeing his expression. Why does he look so interested? People walk around us, ignoring how we're squaring off in the middle of the packed mall. "Why do you care what my family is like?" I ask warily.
"I'm just trying to understand who you are."
"Why?"
Marshall tenses, his eyes breaking away from mine. "Forget it. Let's go in here."
The uncertainty in my guts is almost enough to distract me from the shop he's guiding me into. At the last second, I realize it's full of mannequins draped in gorgeous gowns. I know the designer because Katy adores them. "Wait, hold on, what do we need in here?"
"An outfit," he says calmly.
"You don't strike me as a guy who wears sequins."
He snorts, running his fingers along the hem of a flowing black silk dress. "It's for you. You need it for Friday."
"And what is happening—" I stop myself. “The Gala,” I whisper. “The one Bradford mentioned.”“Oh, good, so he told you.”“Why are we going to that?”“It’s how you make a name for yourself, sweet Leona.” He winks, fingers clutching the dress. I watch, fascinated, helplessly imagining him stroking his hands over the outfit while it’s on my body.
My blood quickens. “I brought clothes.”“Anything like this?”“No,” I admit. “Not even close.”“Pick something out,” he says, moving away from the mannequin. “Anything you like is fine. You said you know what people expect.” I’m guessing he’s poking fun at me, but I pick up some sourness in his tone. He wanders towards a shelf of shoes, pretending he’s looking them over, because I doubt he's about to buy himself some heels.
Pick something out? I don't need his permission. I have my own money. Well, my family's money, but I can access it. They'd probably cheer if they got wind I bought a fancy dress.
Tempted to grab the first garment closest to me, I hurry towards a rack of clothing. My hand is on a ruffled thing with more glitter than a parade float when I glimpse the blink of crimson red. The gown sticks out among the ivory—I guess someone abandoned it in this section.
Unable to stop myself, I lift it up to check the sizing. The mirror across from me shows my reflection with the dress splayed in front of my body, and I know it'll fit before I peek at the tag.
Honestly, I never cared about how I looked in this type of clothing before. As I stand there, pressing the velvet material to my chest, I picture myself dancing in it, and I imagine how Marshall will picture me, too.
Shaking my head sharply, I walk to the register. Buy it and stop thinking about romantic junk. I slap the dress onto the counter in front of the clerk.
She startles, giving me a half smile. "Is this all for you today?"
"Yes, just this. How much is it?"
"Well ..."
My phone is in my hand, ready to scan my tap-to-pay app. "Well?"
She looks over my head, dropping her voice. "It's already been taken care of."
I hunch my shoulders. "No, it hasn't."
"But—"
Gritting my teeth, I spin, glaring at Marshall who's watching me from the wall with his damn smirk. "I can pay for my own things!" I shout at him.
He shuts his eyes, looking amused as he faces away and walks out of the store. I shout after him, but he ignores me. "Bastard," I grumble.
"Ma'am?" the clerk says nervously.
"Fine. It's fine." Not wanting to deal with this mess, I take the bag she's slid the dress into. I can't believe Marshall bought my dress for me. He knows I have money. Was this a trick? Storming out of the store, I find him waiting for me beside the railing overlooking the lower level. "What are you doing, trying to make me owe you?" I ask crossly.
"Hardly. It's just a dress, Leona."
"That's my point. I could have bought it."
"I know."
"Then why ..."
"Because it makes me feel good. Simple enough." Checking his phone, he adds, "I'm not a complicated man, don't dwell on it." A frown crosses his face. He looks over my head, eyes narrowing. When I turn to figure out what he's staring at, I can't pick out anything in particular from the thick, roaming crowd in the mall. "Come on," he says gruffly. "We have to get the art supplies and head back."
What was that about? I wonder, following him as he spins away. His pace quickens, and I have to jog to keep up. "Marshall?"
He doesn't answer. His head is low, eyes forward.
"Marshall."
He snaps a quick side-eye at me. "What?"
"Is something w
rong? Did you see something?"
"No. It's nothing." He shakes his head, but doesn't bother to smile, not even a fake one. Fingers clutch my heart. I'm sure something is off. I look behind me, scanning the cheerful faces, searching for some hint.
"In here," he says, darting into a brightly lit store. The scent of paint hits me hard. The shelves are stuffed with canvases in perfect alignment, and tubes of every color stick out of trays from floor to ceiling. It's one of the bigger art stores I've seen.
Marveling at the selection, I say, "I don't know what I need to buy for the show." Marshall doesn't reply; he's staring out the door at the mall. "Hey, did you hear me?"
"Yeah. Just get a cart and fill it up."
"I said I don't know what I need. That's your job, right? You're supposed to guide me." Marshall doesn't pretend he's listening. I jab him in the side with a finger, making him jump, eyes widening. "Guide. Me." I pronounce each word crisply.
Some tension melts from his face. With a tired smile, he nods at the wall. "Pick twelve canvases, any size. Then get enough of whatever medium you prefer. Watercolors, I'm assuming?"
I'm pleased he remembers. "Okay. I'll load things up." He starts to look out the door, I poke him again. "Whatever is going on, you can tell me."
Marshall lets out a slow breath. Ruffling his own hair, he says, "No. I can't. Go, shop."
Reluctantly I grab a cart, dropping my bag with the dress inside. I eyeball the canvases on the wall. I'm out of my element, but when I think about the gallery I saw today, I remember there was no clear rule about what size any of the art was. It ranged from small to huge. Go with your gut. I choose a couple of canvases that are my height and hoist them in the cart. I pack it until I have half large and half medium sized canvases.
Picking paint is harder. I'm feeling the pressure of planning my first—potentially my last—gallery show. I touch some green trays, then recoil, making for the pinks before retreating again. Clenching my empty hand, I sigh. "I don't know how to choose. I don't even know what I'm going to paint yet. Marshall, any advice? Marshall?"
I half-turn, searching for him from the corner of my eye. He's not standing by the door. My heart ratchets up as I whip my head side to side to survey the whole store and panic sets in. Marshall is gone.
Abandoning my cart I walk quickly to the exit, brushing past shoppers who laugh as they enter. I look through the sea of faces one by one, trying to pick out Marshall's distinctive eyes, or the shape of his wide shoulders in his dark jacket.
There's a flash of a familiar jaw—I see him.
Marshall is standing deep in the crowd, half hidden behind the garland-wound pillar extending from floor to ceiling. I start towards him, his name on my lips.
He's not alone.
His head is bent so he can talk to whoever is with him. I can't see their face, not even their hair since it's tucked under a woven red winter hat. The white noise of the mall melts in my ears until I hear nothing but a muffled warble. Who is he talking to?
Marshall puts out his hand. The stranger shakes it, then pulls away. A group of shoppers blocks my vision. I swing to the side to try and glimpse their faces or some hint to identify them.
And then I do.
It feels like a block of ice rolls down my spine. The crowd picks up again, hiding me from Marshall as he starts back towards the art store. I whirl around to hurry inside. What's going on? I wonder, my head tight from the inside out. Why was he ...
"Leona? Are you ready?" he asks, coming up behind me just as my hands clamp down on the cart I'd left behind.
"Yeah, almost," I say, managing to sound light and breezy, like I didn't just catch him doing something suspicious, like I don't know he's hiding something.
He smiles at me in that relaxed way of his. I wish I could enjoy it without knowing he’s pretending. I can't get the image out of my head ... the snapshot I saw before his companion vanished into the mall.
Heels.
Marshall was talking to a woman.
Chapter 8.
I'm not usually an early riser, but it's different living under someone else's roof. Compound that with how unsettled I've been since seeing Marshall talking with someone when I wasn't supposed to see and, well, my nerves are too frayed to let me stay in bed.
I think it's adrenaline. What else would make my heart thud like I'd pounded two energy drinks in a row at five in the morning? It keeps me tossing and turning until I drag myself into the shower, but that barely helps.
Cracking my window, I scan the city below. It's strangely bright out for a winter morning. The sun glows in the brilliant blue sky, trying to convince me it'll be warm outside when I know it's below fifty degrees.
Back home I'd often go for runs in the garden. There was plenty of space outside for me to wriggle my bare toes in the fluffy grass and dirt without anyone getting in my way. The memory puts a thought in my brain I can't shake. Before I know it, I'm slipping into thick joggers, a sweatshirt and sweater for double warmth, and my sneakers. With my sketchbook tucked safely into my bag, phone secured in my zipped pants pocket, I tip-toe out of my room.
The penthouse's main room is quiet. Pink sunbeams filter through the huge windows, making the white couch look like it's blushing. Marshall is nowhere to be seen. It hits me that if he wakes up and can't find me, he might flip out. We haven't exchanged numbers yet.
On his stainless steel fridge I find a pack of sticky notes. I'm looking for a pen when it occurs to me that his fridge is entirely blank. No photos, no Christmas cards, no reminders. The lack of personal touch baffles me.
Using my own pencil I scribble my number down. I slap it onto the inside of the door so he'll see it if he goes to chase after me. Marshall has bolted, chained, and locked the door. Paranoid? I wonder. I lock the door with the key he gave me on my way out.
And then ... I'm free.
What a funny feeling. I hadn't felt trapped before, but how often did I get to explore a place all alone? My parents or siblings or a driver or security were always with me—I had constant companionship. But not here.
Whistling with joy, buzzing like I’m getting away with something, I half-jog from the elevator through the lobby and into the city air. Early as it is, the streets are packed with cars. Multiple joggers bounce by on the sidewalks. The energy is contagious. I start running, trailing a group at a distance as they weave through crosswalks and stopped cars on their way to who knows where.
I'm thrilled with just the act of running. The brisk air refreshes my lungs and mind. I see my breath as I pant heavier after a few minutes. My throat burns ragged. I push harder, reveling in the act of moving. The group starts to split apart as we jog down a slope. Green color takes over my vision. We've made it to Central Park.
Gasping, I brace my hands on my knees, sucking in oxygen, laughing at myself for seeing how far I could go before my body gave out. There are tons of people walking through the park. A bicyclist rolls around me, vanishing down the path. Rubbing my hands over my face, I rub my cold cheeks with a delighted smile.
This is what I needed.
Finding a bench, I slip out my sketchbook and start to draw. I don't have to think about what I'll make; my hands just start dragging the pencil over the page. Inspiration is a funny animal. You can't catch it, you can't summon it, but when it's around you count yourself lucky and take advantage of the encounter.
My butt is going numb in the cold after half an hour. My stomach is even less happy. I'm debating searching for a place to grab breakfast when a little voice pipes up near me. "Wow! Did you make that?"
There's a small girl standing behind the bench. I didn't notice her. Has she been watching me all this time? Her purple mittens are gripping the curved iron, giving her stability as she stands on tiptoe to crane her neck and look over my shoulder at the sketchbook in my lap. The tip of her nose is beet red, the same shade as the scarf swaddling her whole head, strands of messy brown hair poking out in every direction.
"Oh, uh, hi!" I sa
y, glancing around for the girl's parents. She can't be older than ten or eleven. "You like this?" I hold up my sketchbook. The dragon I started isn't finished yet.
"I love it!" she gushes. "Can you show me how to draw like that?"
"I ... I mean it takes a lot of practice," I stutter. Her eyes are begging me. There's something in her eager desperation that makes it impossible to deny her. "I guess I could show you some things."
"Yay! Thank you!" she squeals, hopping over the bench to land beside me.
For a few minutes I show her the basics of how I work. She's hyper-focused on everything I do. When I hand her the pencil, letting her sketch, I notice my face is hurting from smiling so hard.
"That's really good!" I gush, marveling at her drawing of a dragon that's nothing like mine, but impressive in its own uniqueness. She's got natural skill. "If you practice, you'll blow everyone away."
"You really think so?" she asks, her dimples growing bigger.
"Definitely."
"Sarah!" a male voice calls out. The little girl startles, winding around on the bench, then waving at a man coming our way. He's got on a brown jacket, a bit of scruff, probably a little older than Marshall. "There you are," he says, staring from her to me."
His scrutiny makes me self-conscious. "Sorry! I was sitting here and she came up and wanted an art lesson. I'm Leona."
"Daddy, look what I drew!" Sarah holds up my sketchbook proudly.
"That's amazing, Sarah," he says honestly. The tension seeps out of him; he offers me his hand. "I'm Chris, her dad. Sorry if she was ..."
"She was fine," I say, waving my hands.
"She loves art," he chuckles, holding out a hand towards his daughter. She grabs it before leaping into his arms, climbing onto his back with a toothy grin. "And using me as a jungle-gym."
Sarah puts her hands over his forehead with a giggle. "That lady said I could blow everyone away someday."
"You could," he agrees, "I believe it."
"Then I can help out at the theater!" she crows.
"Theater?" I ask curiously.
