by Hart, Taylor
Blaine stared at the woman in front of him, drinking in her mane of uncontrollable fire-red hair. Her black dress accentuated her pale skin, and he felt simultaneously confused by and drawn to her. “Like a moth to the flame,” he muttered as he followed her out the door. He waited while she locked up the giant, metal door to the gallery.
It’d been a long day. No, it’d been a long life, if he was telling the truth. The last week had simply been one of the longest. Getting the news his father, who had only been retired for six months, had dropped dead of a heart attack seventy-two hours ago had hit hard. It’d been wheels up after that, and he had landed in New York before he knew it. The funeral had been fast and small.
Who was left, really, after forty years in the military? Not that many people. His father hadn’t been the friendly sort. After his mother had passed when Blaine was ten, his father had become even more “soldierly.” There wasn’t a lot of warmth. Ever. Icy was an appropriate descriptor for his Air Force pilot father.
After living with a nanny for two years and on and off with iceman, military boarding school had actually come as a relief at the age of twelve. His fellow students had become his family. Holidays had been brief periods of painful silence and saying “sir” and trying to give the correct answer his father was searching for.
Honestly, when he’d been given the news his father had passed, he hadn’t felt much. He’d done his duty stoically. He shook hands and said the right things at the funeral. He and his father had only been as close as his father had allowed them to be.
His father had been raised in Brooklyn, so it was fitting that he retired here. Fitting that his funeral was in the same Catholic Church he’d been christened in. It all made sense, except the key.
After the service had ended around three, Blaine had found himself wandering through the streets. He’d crossed the Brooklyn Bridge and gone into New York. Time didn’t matter. The want of food didn’t matter. He was a SEAL and a sniper. Physical discomfort was irrelevant. He was used to putting the needs and pains of his body aside using control, focus, and denial. He was used to sacrificing for a greater cause. The problem was that everything felt a bit off at the moment. Not fuzzy, but slightly out of focus.
When he saw her in the window and noticed the door for the gallery was ajar, it’d seemed natural to open it, or at least not unnatural. He’d found himself facing the woman with black tears streaking down her white cheeks. Her red hair was aflame, the moonlight lighting it up like the tip of a red-hot poker. He knew that if he touched her, she would sear him. The way she had thrown that bottle at the painting and then threw her head back and screamed, looking erratic and one step away from certifiably insane, made something inside of him shift back into balance. It took the out-of-focus fuzziness and pushed it back into clarity. All he could see was this mesmerizing woman in front of him.
Now, as they walked the streets to her building, he thought of Kerry, a woman he’d been semi-serious with for a brief stint. Kerry, with her bland brown hair, paled in comparison to the woman beside him. This woman, with her flame-red hair and striking emerald-green eyes, was something out of a Vogue magazine. Even the way she wore the black dress made her seem chic.
They arrived at a standard-looking apartment building, but nothing felt normal. He let her lead him up the stairs to the rustic elevator that had clearly transported large things once upon a time. She keyed in a code, and then they were going up. The elevator opened to reveal a huge space illuminated by moonlight, much like the gallery. She didn’t turn on lights, just kicked off her heels and told him he could put his coat on the couch. Blaine settled onto a barstool at the kitchen counter while she made him pancakes on the grill.
As the syrup spilled over the hot, warm cakes, he told her about the funeral, coming home from Afghanistan, and being pulled off the mission. He told her about how he was only here for ten days to clean out his father’s things. About how he never felt like he knew his father.
Elena sat on the stool next to him and ate four pancakes with a hunger he’d never seen in a woman before. She was pencil thin, but she downed the cakes. She seemed to know what he’d been thinking because, as she stuffed in a bite, she shrugged and told him she hadn’t eaten in three days. She had been nervous for the gallery opening and lived on coffee alone when she was nervous. She, in turn, explained about her father, the senator, not coming, and about Antonio proposing after he’d insulted her painting. She told him how much she missed her mother.
After she was finished, she asked if he wanted milk. He nodded, and she got two glasses, poured them both some, and asked if he liked chocolate in his. He refused, so she made chocolate for herself, and he watched as she drank it down in almost one gulp. The woman captivated him.
He laughed, and she joined in. Without any real reason, they were both laughing hysterically.
Eventually, they settled down. She put her glass down and moved closer to him, but hesitated.
Even though his mind was completely clear, he felt like he’d entered an alternate reality. Reaching out, he gently took her hand in his own.
Their eyes locked. Without thinking, he wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her to him, wanting to kiss her. “So you’re not engaged, right?”
“Nope.”
“Is Antonio a boyfriend?”
“We’ve dated, but it wasn’t serious.”
Their lips found each other’s. She tasted like syrup and chocolate. So good.
Her hand was on his chest. He wanted to deepen the kiss, but he didn’t, just kept his lips on hers. This wasn’t how he normally was—out kissing women. When was the last time he’d eaten a pancake at one in the morning? Uh, never.
He pushed his hands through her hair and smelled her scent, a mixture of pancakes and something expensive. He thought of what she’d told him about her life as a senator’s daughter, of her mother dying, of the pain wrapped into that painting.
He wanted that painting. He’d never wanted a painting in all of his life, and yet, with this one, it was beyond simple desire—he needed that painting.
Again, he wanted to change the tempo of this kiss, but he held back, thinking that she’d mentioned she’d been proposed to earlier. He cooled his jets and pulled back, taking her cheeks into both of his hands and staring into her eyes.
Her eyes flicked open and her lips twitched up. “Hi.”
His heart pounded, and he knew that no matter what else happened, he would never forget how her skin looked like porcelain, how perfect her cheekbones were, or how her smell tantalized him. Man, he needed to smell this perfume every day when he left so he could torture himself. The smooth silk of her hair beckoned him. He ran his hand through it. “Hi.”
How had he fallen for her in seconds, minutes, hours? From the moment he’d seen her. He’d never believed people could fall in love like this, but he had to face the fact that he was in love. He was lost.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
If she was another man’s, he knew he’d fight for her. “So why didn’t you agree to marry the other guy?”
“He wasn’t … Well, we dated on and off this past year, but I never thought he’d propose. I mean … I told you he insulted my mother’s painting. To quote him, he said, ‘It’s a bit disturbing, don’t you think?’”
The way her eyes looked so vulnerable, he felt himself get angry for her. He tensed, wanting to slam his fist into this guy’s face. “He’s an idiot.”
She put her hand back on his chest, lifting her chin in defiance. “It’s okay. I never would have married him anyway. Not ever. Maybe my father wanted me to, and this past year he’s been there for me, but …” She faltered and changed the topic. “Let’s eat another round of pancakes together, if you want.”
His heart swelled with hope. Dang, this woman was intoxicating. “Okay.”
They ate more pancakes. Then she looked up at him in that magical way that only happens at two a.m. “So what’s your plan?”
He blinked. “Plan?
”
“Are you staying at your dad’s place tonight, or did you get a hotel?”
Rubbing a hand over his face, he realized he didn’t want to go back to his father’s. He stood. “Oh, yeah. I guess I should go.” Magic moment over.
Her eyes fluttered, and she pointed to her living area. “Or you can sleep on the futon, if you want. We can talk some more in the morning.”
Uncertain, he looked at the black futon, then back to her. He didn’t want to leave, but he really didn’t want to go back to his father’s apartment. “You shouldn’t ask strange men to stay,” he said, his SEAL instincts kicking in.
“Weird men.” She flashed a hopeful grin at him.
He let out a light laugh. “Yeah.”
A lazy smile filled her face. “Actually, I don’t think you’re weird. So it’s agreed? You’ll sleep on the futon?”
So that’s what he did.
* * *
Blaine woke the next morning on the black futon in Elena’s commercial building turned apartment. The smell of stale coffee permeated the air, and the Beatles crooned in the background.
Jolting to a sitting position, he looked at his watch. Nine-thirty? He never slept in like this. In a flash, it all came back to him. The funeral. The streets. The gallery. The woman. “Elena.” Where was she? He stood, wearing only the Navy pants he’d slept in. He stared around the huge loft apartment.
It was rustic. He’d known that last night, but in the morning light, it looked so different. Steel beams were in the center of the huge room. The ceiling and walls were made of glass, so natural light flooded the room.
He thought of the kiss that had started slowly last night and had burned brighter until it had left them both gasping for air. He’d wanted to push things with her, but he couldn’t.
He respected her and everything she’d been through. When she’d told him he could sleep on her futon, he’d found himself agreeing. Last night had felt so intimate as he’d listened to Elena talk and as they’d eaten pancakes while she explained why she’d chucked that bottle of water at the painting. Right now, he was already looking for her, already needing her, like being separated from a woman he’d barely met was more painful than it should be. “Hello!”
Winding past the kitchen, which was still a mess from last night, he followed the sound of the Beatles. The large building had been divided up into rooms, even though there weren’t walls per se. He saw a large king bed with bookcases and dressers. There was even an exercise area. He wound through a plant area that had hanging plants and covered things and found the music coming from a door that was slightly ajar. Pushing it open farther, he shielded himself from the sun, squinting against the light.
The volume increased, and he saw an old jukebox on the side of some planks of wood out on the roof. Then he saw a large canvas propped up by a huge easel. Finally, there was Elena, wearing jean shorts and a white tank top. Her hair was swept up with paintbrushes holding it haphazardly on her head in some type of messy bun. He stood behind her. She hadn’t noticed him yet.
Attraction pulsed through him. She was beautiful. Model-esque, but not fake. Clearly, she was in her element with paint on her hands and smudges on her face.
As he stared at the canvas, he could make out a body coming into form amidst the different shades of tan. He leaned closer, crossing his arms, cocking his head to the side. He tried to see what she was doing, what she was creating, but he couldn’t completely make it out yet.
The song changed from a Beatles song to a Beach Boys song: “Surfin’ USA.” The music seemed to break her trance, and she pulled back from the canvas and sucked in a huge breath.
He thought about what she’d said the night before. About not eating for three days. If this moment was any indication of how obsessed she could get, he could see how food would slip her mind. She moved to the side and pushed the brushes into a bucket of water. He didn’t want to interrupt, so he went into SEAL mode: complete stillness.
She grabbed a towel and dried her brushes, turning back to the canvas and dipping the brush in more paint. He watched as she started tracing a face into the tan. Eyes? Yep, outlines of eyes. He watched as she began tracing muscles. Was it him? Hmm. It was too early to tell. Maybe he just wanted it to be him. Was it his ego? Probably.
“What do you think, soldier?” she asked, still working, not turning to face him.
Liking the way she said “soldier,” he grinned. “When did you notice me?”
She glanced at him, holding his eyes for a moment before focusing back on her work. “Just now.”
He broke his position and moved to stand next to her. “You weren’t kidding about being focused when you’re working.”
She shrugged and kept working on the muscular outline. “Why didn’t you tell me you were here?”
He wanted to wrap his arms around her waist and plunge his face into her neck, but even after all the kissing last night, it didn’t feel like they knew each other that well yet. “I wanted to watch you.”
Turning to him, her gaze swept over him from top to bottom, and she smiled.
His shirt was off, but he didn’t move, just held her eyes. He wasn’t self-conscious at all. After all, he was in the best shape of his life. He took this chance to get a good look at her too.
The sun cascaded over her body. Once again, he thought about how thin she was. She didn’t have any makeup on. Strangely, her messy state, with paint all over her hands and some in her hair, made him even more attracted to her. The woman was pure disorder. Everything he was not. “Did I tell you that I’ve never eaten pancakes after midnight before?” he said.
With a light laugh, she gave him a smile like she knew a secret he could never extract. “Glad I could give you a new experience.”
Realizing that he felt better standing here staring at this beautiful woman than he’d ever felt in his life, he smiled back.
“So tell me more about your father.”
The thought of his father in the clear daylight angered him. “No.” It came out harshly.
“Did I say something wrong?”
“I’m sorry, just …”
She held his gaze a second longer before she went back to the canvas. “So are you going to tell me about your father or not?”
“No,” he said, trying not to sound as angry as before.
“Okay, so what are your plans today?”
For the first time that morning, he realized he didn’t have any plans. Well, yes, he did have plans. Should have plans. He needed to clean out his father’s things. He needed to go back to that drab apartment with hardly any belongings, and he needed to do something with them. His mind flitted to the key his father’s friend had given him. His hand moved to his pocket, and he patted it, finding the key still there. “No plans.”
She cocked an eyebrow, her hands still working on the canvas. “The coffee’s stale. I made it and forgot about it. You could make some new, or you could go down to Charlie’s, the boutique coffee shop a couple of shops down, and get some for us. I’ll take mine with sugar and cream, please.”
Reflexively, he let out a laugh. Had the woman really just dismissed him? Just like that? And pretty much ordered him to get coffee for her? With sugar and cream? What, was he some butler now? The odd thing was that he found himself withdrawing, pushing a hand through his hair, and agreeing. “Okay.”
“Soldier.”
He turned back.
“I have some of Antonio’s clothes in my closet.” She rolled her eyes. “He left a gym bag here a couple of months ago, but keeps forgetting to take it. They’d probably fit you if you want to shower quickly.” Then she turned back to her canvas. “And I’d be giving them to Goodwill anyway, so help yourself.”
Blaine stared as she easily lost herself in the world of painting again. He felt like he was in one of those bizarro worlds of Superman or Star Trek or … something else from the sci-fi genre.
Opening the door, he went back into the large common area, with t
he steel beams and all the light streaming through with the sections to the airy space. Despite the messiness, he realized he liked it. He went to the upright closet in her “bedroom” and opened it. Did he like the idea of wearing another man’s clothes? No. However, he did want to shower. He needed to get the grit off. Spying a black duffel bag, he pulled it out. There was a pair of jeans, shorts, and a couple of T-shirts. It got him thinking about her ex. What kind of man was he? She’d said he was chief of staff for her father, but he only saw casual clothes. Holding up jeans and a T-shirt, he thought they would fit. The T-shirt would be tight, but the jeans looked about right.
Meandering to the bathroom that had been plumbed next to the kitchen, he noted it was huge. There was space for a bathtub made out of granite with old-looking feet on it. It made him smile because there were candles surrounding it, and he could imagine her relaxing into it after she’d painted for days. There was also a huge shower, a double vanity, and a toilet area sectioned off.
Blaine took a quick shower and got dressed in the dark, tight jeans and T-shirt that made him feel like some kind of hipster. He used a bit of her hairspray, but he didn’t do his usual style; he just gelled it all messy-like. He didn’t look like a soldier at all.
What did he look like? He stared into the mirror at his strong jawline, which matched his father’s. His blond hair was inherited from his mother’s Swiss side. His old girlfriend, Kerry, had said he had a Ken doll face. He hadn’t liked the description.
He thought of the old picture of his dad in front of that red Mustang and his mom in his arms propped on his lap. They were by the beach. He didn’t even know what beach, he now realized. The thing that had stuck out about the picture was that his father hadn’t looked like his father. Hadn’t looked like a soldier, all serious and sending him off to boarding school. No. In the picture, his parents had looked happy. His mom had been a looker, according to his dad. Blonde and petite.
Not like this red flame-throwing goddess in the other room. He thought of last night at the gallery. Had he just referred to her as a goddess? It made him smile. Yes, last night, when she’d turned on him with those fierce eyes, she’d looked ethereal, gorgeous.
