Page 51 of Wicked Design
Clover did so gently. “Is he on drugs?”
Lauren gaped. “God no. Why would you think that? He doesn’t even drink that much. Maybe a beer every couple of months.”
“Is he bipolar? Did he forget to take his meds?”
Lauren blinked. “Not that I know of on either count. He’s moody, yes. Surly at times, sure. At least until he met you. These last days with him have been great. But wild mood swings? No, I’ve never seen that. Did you?”
Clover recounted an abbreviated and G-rated version of their evening: her invitation, his non-response, the fallout. “One minute he was fine then, bam, he wouldn’t talk to or look at me. Hell, he didn’t even want to be in the same room.” She wrung her hands. “I think it began when I mentioned Jimmy Buffet and Springsteen. Does Van Gogh know them? Could he be worried they’ll tell his parents—Van Gogh’s—that he’s in South Florida? I’m not sure they like either guy’s music. They’re very conservative. Van Gogh’s as liberal as they come.”
“Whoa. You lost me.” Molly stirred. Lauren rubbed her back. “How could he possibly know either of those guys? They’re celebrities.”
“Rich people travel in the same circles, don’t they?”
Lauren’s mouth sagged open. “Van Gogh has money?”
“His parents do.”
“Up to this point, I didn’t know they were still alive. He’s never mentioned family. I thought he was an orphan, possibly raised in foster care.”
Clover sat on the sofa and gripped her knees. “That couldn’t have been much worse for him than what he went through. His parents insisted he give up art, get married, become Gordon Gekko, and work in insurance, healthcare, or pharmaceuticals. I can’t remember which, but some big business thing his dad owns. I shouldn’t be telling you this. Please don’t repeat it to anyone. He’ll hate me even more.”
“Of course, I won’t say anything.” Lauren frowned. “I can’t believe he’d hate you because of a party invitation. My guess is you scared him.”
“How? He didn’t freak out when I asked him to go with me to visit my parents while he and they and I were naked.”
“Huh?”
She rubbed her forehead. “They’re naturists. I used to be, too. It’s a long story. How could a simple party scare him, especially if I’ll be there? Is he religious? Is music and dancing against his beliefs? Did I tempt him too much?”
“I’m assuming you tried to pull him out of his comfort zone, and he panicked. He’s painfully shy around everyone.”
Clover had thought he was that way only with women—that’s what Lauren had said—and he was simply sullen or disinterested in everyone else. “You’re sure? You haven’t seen him with me. A porn star couldn’t do better.”
Lauren’s face colored. “One-on-one behind closed doors with someone he likes, and who’s into him as you are, is different than a social situation with strangers. Even people he knows well. Tor, Dante, Jasmina, and I are practically his family, and he still mostly grunts around us instead of talking. The most I know about him is what he does here and the stuff he put on his employment app. Nothing personal like what he told you. At my wedding reception, which was a simple backyard affair with friends and family, he didn’t interact with anyone except Jasmina, and not all that much with her. As I recall, he looked like an inmate on a TV show, walking those last steps to his execution.”
Clover’s heart ached. “That’s so wrong. It’s not who he is deep down. He can be wicked funny. He’s the sweetest guy ever. If his parents had given him some attention and love rather than constant criticism, he wouldn’t be uncomfortable around people. This has to stop now.”
“I don’t advise dragging him somewhere he doesn’t want to go.”
“If I hadn’t invited him to my place for dinner then ignored how reluctant he was, we wouldn’t be dating now…that is, if we still are. Sometimes, people need a gentle push to get them going. That’s all I intend to do.”
Deep voices sounded outside the door. Lauren glanced at her monitor. “Better put your plan together soon. He just came in.”
His footfalls pounded in the hall, keeping time with Clover’s galloping heart. She stood. “Thanks for the talk.”
“You bet. Good luck.”
She didn’t need it. She wasn’t going to accept anything except success. Already, Van Gogh was too precious for her to walk away from and leave him to solitude or misery. Beneath his surface lived a cool guy with a killer wit, the real Cornell Phillipe Wadsworth the Third. Not the automaton he’d become to protect himself from hurt.
She left Lauren’s office and stopped in his doorway.
He faced his computer, his hands paused on the keyboard, and glanced over.
Either her heavy breathing or perfume had caught his attention. Smiling, she stepped inside and closed the door. “I won’t take long. I know you have to work. I missed you last night and this morning. I like you. How do you feel about me?”
Pain flickered in his eyes. He crossed the room and took her in his arms. “I want you more than ever. I’m sorry for being a prick before you left. I went by your place a few minutes ago to tell you that, but you were gone.”
He couldn’t have given her a better reason for coming in here late.
