Perspective (Love in LA Book 1)

by Jenna Hartley

“Maybe next time.” He kept his attention on the sheet, smoothing a nonexistent wrinkle. “I figured I’d just let you get comfortable in the space, get comfortable with the idea of me drawing you.”

  I didn’t acknowledge his comment, though I appreciated his consideration. I was just trying to make it through this session. I couldn’t even think about whether there would be a next time, even though he assumed there would be.

  “Do you have a specific pose in mind?” I asked, partly in an effort to stall. But also, I’d rather figure this out—preferably while I was still clothed. Well, not so much clothed as covered.

  “Nope. Model’s choice. Just pick something comfortable.” He took a large gulp of wine before topping off his glass.

  I sat on the couch, crossing and uncrossing my legs as I struggled to find a comfortable position.

  He busied himself behind the easel until, with one more deep breath, I said, “Ready.”

  Xander’s eyes sparkled with mirth. “Did you forget something?”

  I glanced around, trying to figure out what he was talking about, when he pointed at my—his—shirt. Oh, right. My cheeks and ears were impossibly hot.

  I stood and put my back to him as I unbuttoned the shirt. I knew it was silly—knew he’d seen it all before and was about to see it all again, but I needed to maintain some sense of control over the situation. I heard his sharp intake of breath as the shirt fell from my shoulders, felt a stirring in my core as goose bumps covered every inch of my skin.

  I turned, glancing at him from beneath my lashes. His eyes were hooded, dark, but then he disappeared behind the easel, and I wondered if I’d imagined it. Reading more into the situation because I was, well, naked. And he was hot.

  While he stayed hidden, I took a seat on the couch, crossing my legs and drawing them to my chest. It was sort of cheating, since I was attempting to cover myself up. But Xander didn’t complain. In fact, he didn’t say, or do, anything. The room was silent apart from the music playing in the background and the occasional passing car. I wondered if he was still debating what to draw, but after a few more minutes passed, a knot formed in my stomach.

  What is he doing?

  I craned my neck, trying to catch a glimpse of him. “Is everything okay?”

  He dropped a piece of charcoal to the floor and bent to pick it up, flashing me a sliver of toned skin at his back. “Yes.”

  I wasn’t convinced. “Are you sure? I can change positions or move somewhere else or…”

  “I said it’s fine. Don’t rush me.”

  I jerked my head back at his abrupt tone. “I’m not trying to rush you. I was making sure you’re okay, and that I wasn’t doing something wrong.”

  He dropped his head forward, his heavy sigh filling the space. “You’re not doing anything wrong.”

  “Okay. It’s just…you weren’t drawing.”

  He gripped the charcoal hard enough that it snapped. My body tensed, and my eyes darted to where my clothes were folded in a neat pile. I wasn’t afraid of him, but I certainly felt very vulnerable—naked and alone in a stranger’s studio, with a man much older than me—a professor. What the hell had I been thinking? What did I even know about him?

  “You know what…” I stood, wrapping his button-down shirt around me. “This was a bad idea. I’m going to go.”

  “No.” That one word, spoken with such anger, such frustration, sent my pulse racing. He raked his fingers through his hair. “I’m sorry,” he said in a calmer tone. “What I meant to say was—please don’t go.”

  I crossed my arms over my chest. “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t.”

  He didn’t deserve it, but for some reason, I felt compelled to know more about him. To help him. Maybe it was because of what Brie had told me about the accident. Maybe it was just him.

  “Because I need your help.”

  “Yet I only seem to provoke you to frustration,” I huffed.

  I stood my ground, unwilling to be bullied by him or anyone else. I’d seen my mother get steamrolled by my father too many times, and I’d vowed I’d never let anyone talk down to me regardless of their position, their money, their…whatever.

  Yet you let Mom and Dad do it all the time, a little voice in the back of my head whispered.

  “It’s not you that provokes my frustration.” He stared back at me, and it was then I noticed the dark shadows beneath his eyes. He seemed tormented. By what, I didn’t know.

  “Then what is it?” I softened, wanting to understand.

  “I-I—” he stuttered. “You’re right. This was a bad idea. I’m sorry for wasting your time.” He turned his back to me, effectively dismissing me as he busied himself with some brushes.

  I shook my head, feeling whiplash. Xander had practically begged me to pose for him, and now, after only a few minutes, he was dismissing me. It felt like a personal rejection, and I scrambled to gather my things, not even bothering to get dressed. I was done with his games, done with his temperamental attitude.

  “This has nothing to do with you,” he said as I grabbed my tote and slung it over my shoulder. His words gave me pause. “You’re stunning. Perfect, actually.”

  “Okay…” I said, dragging out the word, not quite sure how to react to that compliment. Perfect. Hah. I wanted to laugh, but I was too busy trying to keep up with his mood swings.

  Xander ran hot and cold so fast, I wasn’t sure I could keep up. Wasn’t sure I wanted to try. I’d heard of artists being temperamental, sure. Arrogant assholes, absolutely. But this was…different. He seemed… I searched for the right word before settling on afraid. Terrified, even. And I was foolish enough to want to know why.

  Chapter Seven

  I sank down on the couch, knowing I was going to lose her, lose the spark of inspiration, if I didn’t fess up. I couldn’t let that happen—not when I’d felt something for the first time since my accident. Not when I had a deadline looming.

  I swallowed hard, feeling the panic rising in me with every second that passed until, finally, I couldn’t take it anymore. “I can’t draw,” I blurted.

  She frowned. “What do you mean, you can’t draw? Of course you can draw. I’ve seen your work. It’s beautiful.”

  I absently rubbed the skin of my wrist. “You’ve seen my work before the accident.”

  She took a seat next to me. “Have you tried painting since?”

  I nodded. I didn’t know why I trusted her, but something told me I could. Maybe it was that spark of inspiration, that thread of hope. Maybe it was the fact that she’d agreed to pose for me despite her fears and reservations. Whatever it was, now that I’d opened my mouth, the words seemed to come pouring out.

  “I’ve tried so many times. Day after day.”

  “What happens?” Her voice was calm, gentle like a lover’s caress. And it encouraged me to continue.

  “I, um…nothing.”

  “Nothing?” She furrowed her brows. “Show me.”

  I pressed my hands against my thighs, surprised I didn’t feel more humiliated. Considering the fact that she was a student and I was a professor, I should’ve been. Yet Kate made me feel nothing but safe. Like I could share my thoughts without fear of sounding silly or ridiculous. I realized then that I hadn’t really talked about the accident with anyone—at least not in anything more than medical terms.

  I shuffled over to the easel, a knot forming in my stomach as she followed. I picked up the charcoal, lifted it to the paper, and tried to force myself to draw.

  Nothing.

  Come on. I urged my arm closer, but my hand shook so badly I finally gave up and lowered it.

  “Hmm.” She tilted her head to the side, evaluating me. “And you’ve been cleared to draw?”

  “Yes, but my hand gets fatigued easily, and I don’t have full range of motion.” I held it up again as if to demonstrate. Despite months of physical therapy, nothing could compensate for the fact that my wrist would never fully recover. But that’s what happened when you fract
ured both your radius and ulna.

  “Can I try something?” Her tone lacked any judgment, projecting only kindness, empathy.

  “Sure.” I lifted a shoulder. At this point—why not? I mean, really, what did I have to lose? I was less than six weeks out from a massive exhibition—my first since the accident—and nothing else had worked.

  “Stand. Let’s move this out of the way,” she said as she scooted the barstool aside. “Charcoal, please.”

  I watched her with what I was sure was a puzzled expression. She stood at the easel, hand poised above the paper.

  “Place your hand over mine,” she said, and I hesitated a moment before she gave me an encouraging nod. “Come on. I won’t bite.”

  I shuffled closer to both her and the easel, our bodies nearly touching. The scent of her hair, her skin, calmed me, making me forget about my worries, my fears. All I could see and feel and think of was her.

  “Now,” she said, and I could almost feel her voice vibrating through her back and into my chest, my heart. “I’m going to close my eyes. Pretend I know nothing about drawing. Teach me.”

  I stood there for a moment, lost in the feel of her. I no longer viewed the paper as an intimidating blank canvas mocking me. It was a clean slate, a chance to create something new. And it wasn’t my jacked-up hand attempting to paint; it was her beautiful one. There was no pressure, there were no expectations, there was only us.

  I made my first mark, and I felt lighter already. And then I kept going—another and another. Music played softly in the background, but her breath kept a steady beat. It was as if I were painting her heartbeat as it translated through my chest and into my arm. I’d never experienced art in such a visceral way, and it opened my eyes to the beauty and joy of collaborating with another person.

  Lines slashed across the paper. Darker strokes and lighter. It was wild and unrestrained, much like her. It was abstract, yet so freeing.

  I didn’t know how long we stayed like that—I lost track of time. And it was only when we finally lowered our hands that I felt the exertion of it, the slight cramp in my hand and arm from lack of use.

  Even still, it was one of the most intense physical experiences I’d ever shared with another person, and we’d barely touched. Somehow, the act of drawing together, our bodies moving in a sort of slow tango, had created an intimacy unlike any other.

  I brushed her hair aside, pushing it over one shoulder so I could get a better view. At least, that’s what I told myself. She shivered, and her reaction sent a wave of excitement through me. It was as if our bodies were having a conversation, even without words being spoken.

  Question. Response. Action. Reaction.

  Perhaps caught up in the moment, I leaned forward and pressed my lips to the delicate skin behind her ear. “Thank you.”

  She sighed, her body relaxing, sinking into mine. And it encouraged me to continue.

  “Thank you.” I placed another kiss on her neck. “Thank you,” I said, kissing lower still. I didn’t know if I could adequately express the relief, the joy she’d given me.

  “You’re welcome.” Her answer was soft, just like her touch had been.

  I didn’t want to release her, but ultimately, I forced myself to let go and back away.

  “So…” She stepped aside, giving me a better view of the canvas. “How did it feel?”

  Kissing her? Amazing. I could only imagine what it would be like to kiss her lips, and a soft smile played at my own. But I knew that wasn’t what she was referring to. “Good. Different, but good.”

  She grinned. “Good.”

  Her phone chimed from across the room, and she retrieved it from her tote. The light from the screen illuminated her face, and I wondered who was texting her so late—a boyfriend?

  I clenched my fist, immediately regretting it. It was none of my business. But more than that, my hand was already tired from drawing, and clenching it had only made it ache more.

  “Everything okay?” I asked when she returned.

  “Yeah.” She gave me a sheepish grin. “But I have to get going or Hunter will worry.”

  “Hunter?”

  “Oh.” She placed the heel of her hand to her forehead and shook her head. “Right. My brother. My older, very protective, brother.”

  I felt something ease in my chest. Brother. Not boyfriend. Even so, I couldn’t get the word “older” out of my head. Did she think I was older or just old? And why did I care so much?

  “How much older are we talking here?” I tried to keep my tone light.

  “Six years.”

  I sputtered a cough, feeling as if the air had been knocked out of me. If six years was old, she must think I was ancient at nearly double that. Shit.

  “But,” she continued, oblivious to my inner turmoil. “He takes his role as big brother very seriously.”

  “I see,” I said, thinking about my own brother. Theo was older than me by two minutes, and he could be overprotective as well.

  “Anyway.” She smiled, grabbing her clothes and heading toward the bathroom. “I better get going.”

  “When can I see you again?”

  She dipped her head, her golden hair nearly curtaining her face from my view. “I wasn’t sure you’d want to.”

  “Kate.” I stepped forward, so tempted to touch her. I lifted my hand as if to do just that before remembering the fact that I was a professor, I was older, and I needed her help. Besides, she probably wasn’t interested in me. “You helped me tonight—more than anyone or anything has these past five months. I need you.”

  “You don’t need me. It’s all in here.” She tapped a finger to my chest, just above my heart. “It’s all in you.”

  I wanted to believe her, but I wasn’t sure. I knew if she hadn’t helped me—if she didn’t continue to help me—I’d still be staring at a blank canvas, my shaky hand unwilling to paint. She’d not only managed to help me overcome my fears but made me want to draw again and not just because I had an obligation.

  “I’d really like to continue working with you. If you’re willing, that is.”

  She seemed to consider it a moment before finally saying, “Okay.”

  After she’d changed, I walked her to the door, placing a kiss on her cheek. “I’ll see you soon.”

  “Soon.” She smiled, and it was the image of her smiling that had me grinning like a fool.

  I woke up, feeling refreshed, rejuvenated. I rolled out of bed and stretched my arms overhead, staring out the window as I thought back on last night and the nights that had come before. Another night of drawing with Kate, of feeling her every movement, every sigh.

  Drawing with Kate was so…freeing. I hadn’t associated that word with my art maybe ever. At least, not since I was a child. Not since before there’d been pressure to live up to my talent.

  But for the first time in my career—the first time since my accident—I felt…hopeful, light. And it was all because of Kate.

  I pulled on some sweat pants and gently stretched my wrist. Nothing had changed physically, but I felt different. I still couldn’t stretch it back as far as I wanted or needed, but it didn’t bother me as much as it had. It was like seeing things through Kate’s eyes had given me a whole new perspective.

  I headed downstairs, intent on the kitchen. I smiled as I passed behind the easel, no longer dreading the prospect of drawing.

  My phone rang, and Theo’s name flashed across the screen. I held the phone to my ear. “Good morning.”

  “Xander?” I could imagine his expression—brow furrowed.

  “Yeah?” I chuckled, still riding the high from last night. “What’s up?”

  “Is this Alexander Kline?” he asked in all seriousness, which only made me laugh harder.

  “Is this Theodore Kline?” I asked, affecting my best impression of him.

  Silence.

  Then, “Did you… Were you visited by aliens last night? Because you never sound this—I don’t know—cheerful.”

&nb
sp; “No alien visitation.” I grabbed a coffee mug, sliding it beneath the machine before pressing the button to make an espresso.

  Though, perhaps an angel, I thought, picturing Kate’s halo of golden hair and easy smiles. She was like a balm to my soul. Her lyrical voice, her graceful movements, everything about her was soothing.

  He cleared his throat. “Hm. Okay.”

  “But I do have the start of something.” I leaned my hip against the counter, waiting for the coffee to finish brewing.

  “You do? That’s fantastic! That’s actually what I was calling to talk to you about.” I didn’t like the heavy sigh that followed. “The gallery is pressuring me for details about your upcoming exhibit. They need dimensions and information about your work so they can paint the walls and determine any equipment they might need.”

  “Can you stall?”

  “What do you think I’ve been doing all this time?” he asked. “How does the new stuff look?”

  When the espresso maker hissed, I grabbed the mug and padded across the floor to the easel. I set down the mug, taking a moment to evaluate the piece. My knee-jerk reaction was that it was shit. But I tried to consider what Kate would say.

  I shook my head. Nope—still looked like shit. In the cold light of the morning, I realized that it was clumsily done, the strokes crude and like those of an unpracticed amateur. The abstract nature of it was so out of my norm, it made my skin itch. And I couldn’t imagine ever displaying something so…hideous at a gallery.

  “Xander?” Theo’s voice came to me as if from far away.

  “I, um.” I swallowed, spots dancing before my eyes. “I have to go.”

  If he said something else, I didn’t hear it. I was too focused on the piece before me. It was the first thing I’d drawn in months, and I hated it.

  Would I ever get back to the level I’d been at before the accident? Or would I forever be limited by a stupid mistake? One moment in time that changed my entire fucking life.

  Chapter Eight

  Panting, I sped across campus, intent on making it to class, when my phone rang. I cringed when I saw “Mom” flashing on the screen. I was running late, but I knew if I didn’t answer, she’d keep calling.