My mouth falls open as I press my thighs together. Just the idea of being kissed again by Max makes me instantly hot and bothered.
“Just one little kiss,” he says in a low voice.
I can’t believe he’s playing this game with me. But the fire in his eyes and the sweet smile on his face are more than I can bear. I take a step toward him. Two can play this game.
“So, if I feel nothing, we’ll agree to be friends—that’s it—no complications. And I can friggin’ marry Jonathan if I so choose.”
He makes a sour face, but nods anyway.
I bite my lip as I look into his eyes. One kiss, one kiss…I close my eyes as I edge closer until I can feel the heat shimmering from his skin.
“Oh, Ava,” he whispers, a deep longing in his voice.
His breath on my cheek undoes me, and when our lips meet, they meld together as if they’d just kissed a moment earlier. We kiss languidly, sensuously, our tongues meeting in an erotic dance. He gently bites my bottom lip before I press my lips even harder against his. An overwhelming current suddenly surges through me, practically knocking me over.
Oh my God! I’m on fire. I run one of my hands along his shoulder and behind his neck, pulling him closer, while winding my other hand into his hair and tugging it passionately. Our bodies are pressed together so tightly I feel as if I’m one with him.
He moans my name over and over as the kiss intensifies. I’m lost in his sweet mouth, his lips turning me into a traitor to logic and reason.
When I finally pull away to gasp for air, he grins widely, and the bright-eyed expression on his face is victorious. He gambled big and won.
Like there was ever a question—he owns me. He probably has all along; it’s just taken me all this time to figure it out.
He studies me with a spark in his eyes, and he takes a sharp breath. He takes his hands out of his pockets as if to grab me and never let me go. My heart’s so full I can’t help but shine with a smile.
I remember we’re taking things slow, so without a word, I hurry to my car before he can say something to draw me back into his arms. But even as I flee the charged atmosphere and speed down PCH, I can feel his joy follow me all the way home.
Chapter Seven / It Must Be Magic
Art is the guarantee of sanity.
~ Louise Bourgeois
By Monday night, the circus that is my life has rolled into town, chock-full of exciting and daring acts. Frankly, it’s exhausting.
Due to the distraction created by all my drama, I manage to make two major screw-ups at work in one day. Brian gallantly covers me for the client screw-up. Sean isn’t as accommodating as Brian is. While working on the press, I feed prints to Sean upside down and ruin fifteen images before we realize what I’ve done. He yells until I cry out of frustration, but there’s really no excuse for such stupidity.
When I get home from work, there are two-dozen lavender roses waiting for me from Jonathan, and I wonder if he’s caught a whiff of Max’s intentions and hopes to head him off at the pass. Even though Jonathan’s still in New York, I get the feeling it’s going to be an emotional roller coaster kind of week. I just need to figure out what to say to Jonathan next time I see him—a lot has happened.
I also receive a flirty text from Max, and although I’m secretly delighted, I’m not sure what the best way to respond is, since we’re supposed to be going slow. So, rather than texting Max or calling Jonathan to thank him for the roses, I decide to be immature and avoid everyone. When Riley gets home from work, she’s wound up from an impossible deadline, so we decide to be really stupid and have wine and Cheetos for dinner.
We’re both pretty loaded, our mouths and fingers covered in that sticky Cheetos orange powder, when my phone rings.
I look at the screen and sigh loudly. “Jonathan. He’s probably wondering if I got the roses.”
“Oh, answer it, you big baby,” Riley slurs.
I roll my eyes, tap my screen and launch right into the conversation. “Jonathan, thank you for the beautiful roses.”
“You’re welcome, Ava. Are you okay? You sound a little funny.”
“I’m a little tipsy. Riley and I both had shitty days, so we decided to have wine…with Cheetos for dinner.” I sway on the couch.
“I’m sorry you didn’t have a good day. But Cheetos aren’t food, sweet girl. If I were there, I’d take better care of you.”
I remember the fancy lunches we’ve had. “I bet you’ve never had Cheetos for dinner.”
“No, Ava, I haven’t.” His tone reminds me of my middle school math teacher.
I try to picture Jonathan eating at Phillippe’s or El Coyote, and realize how unlikely it is. He’s so serious about everything. “Do you even eat tacos?” I ask.
Maybe he’d bring me a taco? Hey, that sounds good! I giggle.
He pauses for a moment.
“Hello?”
“I’m here. I’m just distracted, thinking of all the things I want to do with you, and it isn’t eating tacos,” he says with a husky voice.
“Like what?” The thought that I shouldn’t be talking to him while tipsy slides into my head, but then it slides right back out.
“I’ll tell you, but first I need to finish something. I’ll call you back in ten minutes. What are you wearing?”
“My work clothes, why?”
“I want you to put on the nightgown I bought you at La Perla. Will you do that?”
“I guess so.” In my wine-soaked state, I’m a little confused as to why I need to wear a nightgown to talk on the phone. This thought is followed by the realization that I don’t want to talk to him. I picture Max in my mind, and it makes talking to Jonathan feel even more wrong.
“Good, I’ll call you back and tell you what I’d do if I were there. So, go get ready, make yourself comfortable, and I’ll call back soon.”
“But—” I start to explain that I’m not up for a call, but he’s already hung up and I throw the phone down.
“What does Mr. Oopsy-daisy want?” Riley asks as she examines her toes.
“For me to put on my nightgown before he calls back. Geez. Why in the hell does he want that?”
“I bet he wants to have phone sex, silly!”
My mouth falls open. Now I really don’t want to talk to him. I pick up my phone and text him as fast as my wobbly fingers will allow.
Sorry, but I’m not feeling so good.
Let’s talk another time when I’m in better shape.
My phone rings a minute later and I feel guilty as I watch Jonathan’s call go to voicemail. We need to have a serious talk, but it won’t be tonight.
“Poor Ava.” Riley shakes her head sadly, as I collapse back on the couch. “Your love life is wonky.”
When I awaken my ragged self the next morning, I remember fuzzy details of last night and pick up my phone. There are three voicemails from Jonathan. I let out a long sigh. He probably wasn’t happy that I didn’t pick up his calls.
He’s flying to L.A Saturday, so I text him and ask if we can have lunch Sunday. It’s time to face the music.
The following morning at the gallery, I spend my time numbering prints and working on a press release for our upcoming show. Around eleven-thirty, Max surprises me with a call.
“Are you free for lunch?”
I grin. “You’re in town?”
“Yeah, I had a meeting, and I’d really like to see you before I head back to Malibu.”
I swoon a little. “You want me to meet you somewhere?”
“I’ll pick you up in thirty minutes. I have a plan.”
A plan? I’m excited. A few minutes later, I grab my purse and hurry to the bathroom to brush my hair and touch up my lipstick.
When I pass Brian, he gives me a crooked grin as I slip my phone in my purse.
“What?” I ask.
“Who was that on the phone?”
“Max.” I can feel my cheeks turning red.
“I thought so.”
Ma
x is in a great mood when he picks me up. He hands me his notebook and encourages me to look at the drawings inside. They’re the studies he’s making for his new series, and his ideas incorporate the paintings we bought from the thrift stores. I love seeing his ideas materialize.
As he drives, he asks about the gallery. I skip my Monday screw-up stories and tell him about the public relations I’ve been doing for the upcoming show instead. He hangs on my every word, just as interested in what I’m doing as I am to hear about him.
I’m so engrossed in our conversation that I don’t notice he’s pulled into the LA County Museum of Art parking structure until he takes the ticket from the machine and parks.
“We’re going to the museum for lunch?”
He nods and grins before we take off for the ticket booth.
Tickets in hand, he leads me into the Broad Building to see the Renoir in the 20th Century exhibit.
“We’re having lunch with Renoir?” I tease.
“Amazing, right?” he says as he approaches one of the paintings with a dreamy look in his eyes.
The exhibition is full of fleshy women stretched out languidly.
He reaches out for my hand and pulls me closer. “Look, Ava,” he whispers.
I step close enough to see the threads of every color within each of Renoir’s brushstrokes. “His art is so sensuous.”
Max sighs. “I love how he paints women. I have trouble not touching the canvases. I was here yesterday and was so engrossed, they had to throw me out at closing time. I knew I wanted to come back with you.”
I look over, surprised. “I’m glad you did.”
He doesn’t let go of my hand as we move from painting to painting, and I can feel his energy flow through me. It’s inspiring—every passing moment is threaded with color and joy, much like Renoir’s brushstrokes.
When we get to the landscapes, he glances down at his watch. “We better eat. I don’t want to get you in trouble at work.”
He retrieves his backpack from the coat check and leads me outside to a bench under a tree on the edge of the sweeping lawn. He pulls sandwiches and cans of fancy soda out of his bag. He grins widely at my reaction to the spread. “Do you want turkey or roast beef? And I have brownies for dessert.”
Max has put so much thought into our lunch date that I’m overwhelmed by this sweet side of him. It’s almost more than I can handle. How can I keep the promise I made to myself to take things slow when he treats me like this?
When we’re done with lunch, we run to the car and laugh the whole way back to the gallery, taking turns making up outlandish stories as to why I’m late getting back. When he zooms up to the front door, I lean over and give him a kiss on the cheek.
“Best lunch date ever!” I say before I jump out of the car. I look back before I step inside, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen him look so happy.
That night, Riley reminds me about the fundraiser at the home of Dylan’s parents on Saturday. I realize that I’d better figure out what I’m going to wear, since this event is formal. As we brainstorm, I remember a vintage Valentino dress Katherine loaned me for a similar event with Brian several years ago. I decide to ask her if I may borrow it again. Riley spent the weekend shopping and has something on hold at Barney’s while she figures out how she’s going to pay for it.
At our team meeting the following morning, Adam gives Sean and me a revised deadline to get Max’s prints done. Afterward, we decide to run five colors a day to finish on time. I promise Sean that I’ll give him all the time he needs in the studio.
Later that morning, Dylan calls me.
“Hey, Dylan. How are you doing?”
“Pretty damn good, thanks to you.”
I hope he isn’t being sarcastic. “Why’s that?”
“It’s Max. I don’t know what magic spell you cast over him, but I’ve never seen him this motivated and happy. It’s just fantastic. I’ll be honest. I didn’t know how he’d be after his breakdown, but he’s like a new man.”
“Well, don’t give me the credit. You can thank Ann. She took care of him and got him back on his feet…but Max should get most of the credit. I think he’s really motivated to make his life better.”
“And you had nothing to do with it?”
“I don’t think so.” I’m not sure if I’m denying my effect on Max for Dylan’s benefit or not. I just want Max to own this.
“Uh-huh, sure. If that’s how you want to play it, but I still want to thank you, at the very least, for bringing him home. I feel like we can put all the dark crap behind us and the future looks bright.”
“Well, I’ll agree with you there.”
“I’ll see you Saturday, Ava. You’re our extra special guest, after all.”
“Are you impressed?” Max’s voice sounds bright, even over the phone.
“You always impress me, Max. Now tell me what I’m impressed with this time.”
“I waited almost two whole days to call you. My shrink has me working on some behavioral therapy.”
“Well, then I’m impressed, I guess. You’re kidding, right?”
“Sort of. Anyway, how are things?”
“I spent the whole day working on your print with Sean. It’s really looking good. And I talked to Dylan yesterday. He waxed poetic about you.”
“Yeah, he loves me again.”
“Well, considering he’s your manager, that’s probably a good thing.”
“I keep meaning to ask you…are you guys going to Art Santa Fe next month?”
“Adam’s planning on it, but I’m not sure if he’s taking me. I should ask him. How about you?”
“Yeah. Dylan and I will be there. Jess and Joe are coming too. It’s a really good show, and I love Santa Fe. You should convince Adam to let you come. It’s very casual—not a big scene like New York. We’d have so much fun.”
The thought of exploring Santa Fe with Max, Jess, and Joe makes me smile. I think about all of us in New York, and it’s stunning how much has changed in such a short period of time.
I wind a lock of my hair around my fingers.
“Max…Can I ask you something?”
“Well, go ahead and ask, and we’ll see if I want to give you an answer.”
“Are you on antidepressants or something now?”
There’s a long pause. “Why do you ask?”
“I was thinking about something Dylan said—how different you are since you’ve come back. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with it if you are.”
He pauses. “Yes, I am. It took a while for the effects to kick in though, so I’m just now starting to feel the benefit. They’re definitely taking the edge off.”
“That’s good. I’m glad they’re helping.”
“You know, I’ve tried them in the past, and they either didn’t help or they made things worse. One round turned me into a zombie. I wasn’t acting crazy, but I was completely flattened out…it took away all my creative energy. I couldn’t stand it. This time, Ann found a real good psychopharmacist who’s worked with my psychiatrist to put me on a lower dose of a new drug that doesn’t fuck with my art. I’ll just have to see how it goes, ’cause I don’t want to stay on this stuff forever.”
I smile, glad he trusts me with such private information. “Sounds like you’re in good hands.”
“I am. Look, I understand why you’re curious, Ava, and for the record, I’d rather have you ask questions than to wonder and never ask. Is there anything else you’d like to know…anything else you’ve heard?”
I don’t want to lie to avoid upsetting him. “I’ve heard stuff.”
He takes a deep breath. “Okay, let’s talk about it.”
“When you disappeared, I heard about possible disorders, mental stuff…”
“Asperger’s? Bi-polar? Manic depressive? All of the above?”
“Yes,” I whisper.
“I’m a case. But I don’t want a diagnosis in the Asperger’s spectrum or anything else to define me. It may make
some things harder, and I have my low points, but it’s nothing I can’t overcome. Do you believe me?”
“I believe in you.”
“Good. I want you to know that my being better isn’t just the medication. I’m also trying really hard to focus on what I care about now and have a purpose.”
“Yes, a purpose.” I’m really happy he sounds so positive.
“And I’m working really hard on being happy. It sounds crazy doesn’t it—working hard to be happy. I need to stay away from the things that bring me down or get me off track, and spend time with the things and people that mean the most to me. On that note, are you free Sunday?”
My heart sinks, remembering my plans with Jonathan. “Actually, I have plans on Sunday, but let’s plan another day.”
“Okay, well maybe next weekend.” His tone is deflated, and he gets off the phone quickly.
God, I feel bad about bursting his bubble when he’s doing so well. One step forward, two steps back.
Friday morning, Brian calls me into his office. “Ava, you have got to see the pictures from Wednesday night. Thomas and I had such a blast!”
I look at his laptop screen. “Remind me what that was? You go to so many functions, I can hardly keep up.”
“I know, I live such a fabulous life!” He laughs while he clicks through the photos. It looks like every model and young actress in Hollywood was there. “It’s that new show at MOCA, The Collision of Art and Fashion. It’s such a great idea, even if it’s probably just a thinly-veiled ruse to up ticket sales in this lagging economy.”
I pull up a chair.
“Girlfriend, look at this shot of Thomas with Kate Moss!”
“No way, I love her!” I lean in closer. This is Max’s dream event—the type of opening he would attend and be photographed with models or actresses. My heartbeat accelerates.
“So, did you see Max there?” I ask, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible.
“Funny you should mention Max. I knew he was back, and I was sure he’d be there. But I never saw him, not even in the event photos. Let’s see if we can find him.”
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