Page 46 of Wicked Design
Chapter Twelve
The next time they ate together, Van Gogh planned on taking Clover fully clothed to a family restaurant. She kept blindsiding him after sex, offering food when he would have killed for a nap. Too proud to sleep, he hung in there.
She placed two cheeseburgers on his belly. “Tired?”
“You?”
“I should be comatose.” She lowered the paper wrapper on one sandwich, handed it to him and took the other. “I haven’t slept in days.”
Shadows circled her eyes. If possible, her skin was even paler.
He pushed up, legs crossed, shoulders slumped, lids heavy. “Is it too hot in your place to rest? Look, if you need help, I’ll pay your electric bill. Crank up the air. Live a little. At the very least, avoid heat stroke.”
“I’m fine.” She bit into the double beef patty and fingered cheese off her lip. “I was working on my Clover Cuffs.”
He popped a pickle into his mouth. “How are they coming?”
“You tell me.” She pulled a box from her backpack and unfolded tissue paper. “The final color will be silver or gold, depending on the metal I use. I may do every set in both. I might even do some in black or red. Mix it up.”
He lifted her first design. The cuffs resembled a snake eating its tail, jaws open, fangs displayed, forked tongue hanging down. The next was more dramatic. A dragon, wings retracted, the tail also in its mouth. However, this one had fin-like swirls that protruded from its spine. Another set boasted two intertwined snakes eating each other’s tails.
They were amazing.
The last one, though… She’d modeled a man’s hand in place of the cuff, his fingers touching his thumb.
Van Gogh lifted it. “I like this one best.”
“Silver or gold?”
“Gold, but not the yellow kind. Darker.”
“Antique?”
“If that’s bronze to make this look like a real hand trapping the woman’s wrists, then yeah. This is too cool.”
“Then you forgive me for neglecting you these last days?”
“I didn’t say that.” He chowed down on his cheeseburger and fries. “That comes after you tend me.” All night if he had his way. “Do I get another burger?”
“Two more.” She gave them to him, along with a monster burrito, half the salsa and chips, and took the rest for herself. “When do I get to see your oils?”
He gulped his beer and burped. “’Scuse me.”
“Never, huh?” She squeezed his knee. “Don’t you know how talented you are?”
Her question was too guileless and sweet for Van Gogh to laugh off.
After struggling for so many years, he wasn’t certain he’d trust fame if he achieved it. He might be like popular artists who considered themselves frauds, always worried their fans would find out their limitations and failings.
She sighed. “You don’t know how awesome you are.”
“It’s not that. I have some talent. At Wicked Brand I’m the best artist. Tor’s good, but he’s not me. However, when it comes to my oils… Am I up there with the greats? No freaking way.”
“Hey, they had to die to reach that status. I read Van Gogh’s bio. Poor dude didn’t have Facebook, Twitter, or other social media to push his stuff. You do. I saw how Lauren prices your oils. She wouldn’t do that if she didn’t think you deserved it.”
He scooped salsa on a chip and shoved it into his mouth.
Clover gave him her expectant, too-honest-and-open look. Must have been hell for her parents when they told her Santa didn’t exist. Unless they hadn’t filled her head with the silly fantasy in the first place.
