Bethany followed. “Together?”
Working with Harrison Michael Taylor.
“On something different for both of us,” he said with that charming, easy smile. “Without you tossing away everything you’ve already done, and without me continuing to do my thing alone, like I’m nursing some damn grudge against the world. It could be fun.”
“Fun?”
“Sit.” He settled her behind the desk, in his chair.
He stood behind her, reaching around to drive the keyboard and mouse. A digital art program sprang to life on his enormous monitor.
“Close your eyes.” He waited until she did, and then he clicked away with the mouse. “It’s only a rough start. I did a lot of it in the middle of the night, so use your imagination.” He sounded as nervous as she’d felt following him around her studio at Dru and Brad’s. “But for a first attempt, I think the results are promising.”
She felt him kneel beside her.
“Open up,” he said.
She did, dying to see what he’d done. And then she stared, until her eyes insisted on blinking.
“It’s . . .”
She couldn’t finish her sentence.
Her thought.
Any thought.
He’d transformed his iPhone shots of her stop-and-start paintings from her studio into something unexpected and confusing and exciting—just like everything else about the man.
She took over the mouse and scrolled through each series of photos, some black and white, others full color. He’d cut and cropped and matted the pictures of her paintings together, layered them on top of one another in one collection, side-by-side in another. In the next, he’d worked in photos that he’d taken of the kids outside Marsha and Joe’s house the day he’d arrived to meet Joe for the first time.
In another set he’d used images from around Chandlerville—overlaid, filmy, opaque, barely a whisper of them at times—combined with her various attempts at landscapes of the meadow and pond. She recognized the interior of Dan’s. Grapes & Beans. McC’s. Familiar people and places and shapes, filling up the empty spaces of her half-finished work, her halting visions of the life in Chandlerville.
And then she switched to a final collage of images and froze.
“Camille,” she said. “Oh, Mike . . .”
“What do you see?” Mike took off his hat, tossing it onto the desk, feeling like a little boy showing off his new toy, wanting Bethany to love it as much as he did.
He’d grouped one final, very special collection of photos. Bethany’s half-finished portrait of her niece, matched with a sampling of Camille’s exuberant photographs. Selena had been happy to contribute, once he’d explained what he was hoping to do and why. He’d borrowed from images of Camille’s grammy’s flowers and quilts, a bedraggled blue bunny, her new puppy. Cookies that she’d baked with Marsha. A shot of her snuggling with Joe in his recliner in the Dixon living room.
Some of the shots Mike had cropped into pieces, forming a border for Bethany’s barely begun portrait. Some were interwoven into a near-transparent background. He’d layered and overlaid and filtered, accenting Bethany’s beautiful work with the washes of color she’d dreamed of, enhancing the open spaces and the emotion she’d shied away from capturing completely. He’d hoped to obliterate the isolation she’d seemed to have felt each time he’d watched her gaze at what she’d created. He’d finished it just that morning, thinking he’d maybe never get the chance to show her.
He eased Bethany’s hand away from the mouse. “What are you seeing?”
Her fingers laced around his. “My niece looks so happy.”
“So do you,” he said, “smiling at her now, the way you weren’t before when you looked at your portrait.”
“Because I couldn’t do this on my own. You’ve made her so beautiful.” She turned to Mike, flowing into his arms, holding on to him like a lifeline. “Thank you. My parents will love it.”
He helped Bethany to her feet, claimed the desk chair himself, and settled her in his lap, both of them facing the monitor. He ignored the sweet friction of her soft backside nestling against him. Anticipation flared, but not for more sex. He wanted more of her excitement for what she was seeing, what she could do with it, and what they could do together.
Maybe in her art he could show her the kind of love he didn’t know how to shower her with in real life.
“We made something beautiful,” he said.
Whatever happens next, you two owe it to each other to figure it out together.
“And it’s just a start,” he added, “if you want to work on your parents’ present together. Camille’s quilts were my inspiration, and your residency application about your mural project at the youth center. Merging beautiful, disjointed pieces of things to make them a stronger whole than they could be on your own.”
“Together?”
“Let me walk you through the art software. You’ll be up and running in a flash.”
“With what?”
“Whatever you want. Sky’s the limit. This will be a totally free creative space. No expectations or boundaries. No worries about getting anything wrong or right or even finished.”
He kissed the side of Bethany’s neck. Minimized Camille’s collection and all the others, making them smaller and smaller until they were a vibrant pattern of thumbnails within the art package’s workspace, displayed together on his oversized screen as if they were a palette of oil paints. He moved them around, deftly working with contrast and texture, using the shading of one grouping to offset the vibrancy of another.
“Think about all that history, everything you love about your home and your family and your life in Chandlerville,” he said, waiting for Bethany to see it, too. “How each piece of your world fits. Exactly the way your parents have made sure each of you kids have fit, no matter where you came from before.”
Mike continued rearranging the photo collections, minimizing some of them more, shifting others to create new shapes, interlocking them into a design that drew the eye to see an overall image, instead of each individual piece.
“Do you see?” he asked.
Bethany concentrated, her eyes squinting. “It’s . . . like a mural.”
He accessed the menu and reduced the opacity and saturation of the pattern he’d created, making it nearly transparent. And then he opened one final image that he’d saved for last, vibrant and full of light. Feeling Bethany tense, he rolled the new digital photo over the rest.
“My painting of the house.” Her hand covered his, sliding it away from the mouse. “My parents’ entire life, their town, their history.”
“Your history,” he reminded her. “Your family. Your paintings. It’s your life, too. Your art.”
He kissed the side of her neck again.
“Work with me here, Bethany. It’s been a long time since I’ve had this much fun playing with something. Let me show you. I know you’ll love it, too. Work with me, here in my studio. Let’s see what we can do together.”
You’re never going to know what’s over that cliff you’re clinging to . . .
“I can’t believe you did all of this.”
Bethany was still trying to grasp that Mike was so close and offering her so much, with need in his voice as he asked her to work with him, to create beautiful things with him and let whatever love he could give her be enough.
“You did this,” he insisted. “I was going to send you copies of all of it, even if you decided you couldn’t see me anymore. So you’d know just how good your newer work is. How much of the life you want back is already there, inspiring you to paint. You just need to mix things up a little so you can see the potential of what you’re doing.”
“Mix things up a little with you?”
She relaxed into Mike’s body, his praise and excitement, feeling a creative door open wider, along with her heart. The mixed-media approach he’d taken with her work fascinated her. Several of the co-op’s artists were doing similar things w
ith digital photography techniques. But it had never occurred to Bethany to try something like this herself.
Mike kissed her cheek. “Tell me you’re in.”
She wanted to be. She wanted all of it. She wanted all of them she could get. But everything would remain shimmering just out of her reach, unless she let go and let herself fall.
“You’re not playing fair,” she said.
“Life isn’t fair.” His hands roamed up her body, her sides, until strong, talented fingers caressed the contours of her breasts with phantom-like strokes. “But whatever I have, whatever I can give you, is yours if you want it.”
“If I want it?”
She turned in the chair, straddling his lap and wrapping her arms around his neck. He kissed both her eyes.
“For now?” she asked.
“For as long as you tell me I’m good for you.”
It was such a solemn promise. And a telling one. There was a part of Mike that believed his best would never be good enough, either.
“You’re very, very good for me.” She glanced at her painting on the easel. At the beautiful images he’d made for her on his computer. “You’re so good, I don’t know how to say no. You’re the one who needs to be sure this time, that this is what you want.”
She kissed him, his taste and hungry groan unraveling the last of her control. She began unbuttoning his shirt, pulled it away from his chest. She needed his skin beneath her hands.
“Because I’m warning you.” She moved on to the buckle of his belt, and then the fastenings of his jeans. “I can be impossible to deal with when I’m painting.”
He grinned. “I certainly hope so.”
His hands relieved her of her blouse and long skirt, her underthings—far less sexy things than she’d worn Sunday night. Rough fingers excited, distracted, made her ravenous.
“Be as difficult as you want,” he said. “But work with me. Stay with me. Let me help you feel as good as I do, every time I see this beautiful face.”
He caressed her cheeks with his thumbs. It was such a sweet, familiar gesture. A rainbow of color burst through Bethany, happiness and joy and a tenuous sense of belonging that she promised herself they could nurture.
“You really want this?” she asked.
He drew her closer, skin to skin, his fingers threading through her hair, removing her headband. He tilted her face and fed from her lips, drowning her in the escape, the fall.
“I really want this,” he said, his gaze stormy.
He carried her toward a tiny room on the other side of the office. It contained a bed, a nightstand, a four-drawer chest, and a wall-mounted TV. And beyond that, another door to what looked like his darkroom. He eased her down to the covers, his smile wickedly carnal.
“Hi,” he said, his body pressing close, his jeans half-unfastened, his hiking boots still on.
“Hi, yourself,” she answered back.
Chapter Fifteen
Bethany surfaced, buried in Mike’s strong arms.
She was sprawled on top of him, actually, in his bed in the loft. They’d made love a second time before he’d tucked her into the curve of his body, and she’d drifted off for hours—sleeping through the night for the first time since she could remember.
Predawn light pinkened the sky beyond his bedroom’s closed blinds. She was scheduled for prep at the Whip. Which meant a walk of shame was in her near future, slithering into Dru and Brad’s to change for the new day. And after a morning at the Whip, there was wedding stuff planned. Girl stuff that she couldn’t miss, didn’t want to miss, wouldn’t miss.
But first things first.
She snuggled back into the comfort of Mike’s deep breathing. The peaceful smile on his face made her want to do a victory dance. To hell with the instincts cautioning her to slow down, be more careful, and hold just a little bit of her heart back, just in case. She’d dreamed last night about her painting of her parents’ house. About the work Mike had done with his photos of her canvases, meshed with the people and places she loved in Chandlerville. Her kids at the youth center had made an appearance, too, as she slept. Along with their mural.
Bethany’s connection to all of it had felt so real. Solid. Everything she’d always wanted had been hers to create with, to be a part of. Because Mike had been there, helping her see that she already belonged—entrusting his enormous heart to her, and needing her love in return.
A blast of electronic music sounded from the general direction of his desk. Mike startled awake to the accompaniment of the Darth Vader theme from Star Wars. She laughed. She pressed her hands to his chest to push herself up. One of his palms stroked her bottom. The other swiped across his beard stubble.
He popped a single eye open, read his watch, and groaned at the time. His phone went silent. The buzzer that game shows used when you got an answer wrong sounded next, announcing either a voice mail or a text. And then Vader began again.
“Damn.” Mike beat his head against the pillows. “The woman needs a mute button.”
Bethany slid away and watched him sit on the edge of the bed, staring at his feet. A chill speared through her at the solitary figure he cut.
“Woman?” She rubbed her arms to warm them.
He snorted. “My mother.”
“Oh.” Bethany stood next to the bed while he stared into his dimly lit office. His mother’s ringtone ended, followed by another message alert. “I’m going to excuse myself in here.”
Bethany disappeared into the tiny bathroom. He’d told her enough about his own troubled childhood and his strained relationship with his parents to let her know he’d want his privacy while he dealt with his mother. She heard his phone sound off again, and the bed creak as he stood. She ran water in the sink, letting it warm.
His toothbrush and toothpaste were on the counter. Medical supplies, too, that she assumed were for his insulin pump. He’d been so nonchalant about it last night, disconnecting it so deftly she’d barely noticed, and then checking his glucose and reconnecting it, using a leg band, before going to sleep. Easy, smiling, kissing her, he’d reminded Bethany not to worry about him before he’d snuggled her close.
How long had it been since Mike had let someone worry about him?
She checked her reflection in the mirror and bit back a squeal. Her eyes widened. Her spiky haircut was smashed to the side of her head, stray pieces jutting out in every direction like a cartoon character’s.
“Life most definitely isn’t fair,” she told her image, sticking out her tongue and using her hands to wet her bangs and restore order.
She washed her face, swiped toothpaste on her finger, and did the best she could with her teeth. She dried off on a bath towel that smelled like Mike’s cologne. Wrapping it around her body, the sexy odor lingering, she found the bedroom empty and Mike in his office, dressed in yesterday’s wrinkled shirt and jeans. He’d leaned his hip against the edge of the desk. Her rumpled skirt and blouse were neatly folded beside him, bra and panties on top.
Arms crossed, his expression guarded, he saw Bethany and smiled. She rushed into his arms, kissing him, loving the feel of him savoring her, his fingers skimming her bottom beneath the towel, fanning her need to have him one more time before she hustled back to Chandlerville.
Then he inched her away with a grimace.
“She’s downstairs,” he said.
It took Bethany a moment to follow. She was instantly, excruciatingly aware of her near-nakedness.
“Your mother?”
“She has the timing of a black-ops strike team.” He laughed, like for a minute he’d forgotten how to. Then he winked. “You never see Livy Taylor coming, until you’ve taken the bullet between your eyes.”
“I should . . . get dressed.” Bethany reached for her things, jumping when his touch stalled her.
“We’ve done nothing wrong.”
“I know that.”
He pulled her against his body and kissed her.
Her heart caught a little. She snat
ched up her clothes. “Go see what your mother wants, before she barges in and catches me like this.”
Mike nodded, something about him, in his eyes, his energy, different. Distant.
Chalking it up to his mom-vasion, Bethany headed toward the bedroom. She turned back and caught his slow smile, his attention rising from her backside to her face. He slipped his hat on.
“Be right back, darlin’,” he teased before heading out.
“Mother.” Mike peered through the closed, shadowed windows of the Lincoln Town Car parked at the curb outside the loft. Every cell in his body wanted to be back upstairs with Bethany. “What are you doing here?”
Ignoring Livy’s call the way he’d wanted to, and her suspiciously timed visit, would have made his mother even more determined to have his attention. Otherwise, he would still be upstairs in bed with Bethany.
The window rolled down. One perfectly manicured hand reached through it for his, a stream of tobacco smoke wafting through the opening like something sinister in a Disney cartoon.
“You invited your father and me down for a visit,” said the beautiful woman within, brittle smile beckoning. “Why don’t you join me. I have coffee. We can catch up.”
“I don’t think so.”
He’d worked in countless smoke-filled bars and it never fazed him. But being in an enclosed space with his mother and the habit that was slowly killing her was a deal breaker for Mike.
With a sophisticated pout, Livy disappeared into the luxury car. The door finally unlocked. He opened it and helped her step out gracefully. She was dressed head-to-toe in lightweight cashmere. Black, of course. She was a stylish New York woman displaying her affluence to its best advantage at all times. Conservative, elegant, bland. Topped off with stiletto heels and the high-end bag of the season.
He’d never known her to wear anything else. No one had. A few years back a rumor had made it all the way to page six that Olivia Taylor’s will contained a wardrobe clause, instructing that she be buried in her one-of-a-kind, gold-embossed Alexander McQueen platforms.
His Darling Bride (Echoes of the Heart #3) Page 22
