Page 21 of Down Shift (Driven 8)
When he lifts his head and meets my eyes, the breath I didn’t realize I was holding burns in my lungs. “I don’t know shit about art, Getty, but these paintings, those sketches . . .” He shakes his head as if he’s seeing me in a whole new light and for a split second I worry he sees my weakness. My inadequacies. Everything I hide and everything I wish I was. “They’re unbelievable. It sounds lame, but it’s almost like you can feel them.”
I don’t know what I expected to hear, but his description pulls at every part of me that still needed an ounce of validity. “Thank you.” My voice is soft, uneven, and now that he’s seen them, I don’t know what to do. I feel ten times more naked than I did the other night. Vulnerable. Like I want to kick him out of my inner sanctum and keep him here to hear him tell me more at the same time.
“Where’s your next showing at?”
My brow furrows and eyes narrow as I try to compute what he’s asking me. “What do you mean?”
“Like I said, I don’t know much about this kind of thing, but it looks like you’re gearing up for an art show.” He motions to the canvases lining the walls of the alcove. “So I was asking when it is. I mean, it all makes sense now.”
“You lost me.” I’m still recovering from someone seeing my paintings and the unexpected praise, let alone trying to follow him. “What makes sense?”
“You renting the house. Getting ready for the show here and then moving to the next place, for the next one.”
My laugh is long and rich with a tinge of nerves lacing its edges. “There is no show. I’m not moving on.” He angles his head and stares at me. “They’re not for sale, Zander.”
It’s his turn to look at me funny, like he doesn’t understand. “Why not?”
I’m not going to lie and say the confusion in his voice over my answer—like I’m crazy—doesn’t give a boost to my ego.
“Because I paint for me.” Silence fills the room as my words settle on him. The storm outside even seems like it stops to emphasize my statement.
“And your point is?”
The intensity in his eyes—dark blue sparks of color searching out mine across the room—and the demand in his tone knock me off-kilter. Transport me back to that person I left behind and never want to be again. On the spot. Body flushed with heat. An apology quick on my tongue even though I have nothing to apologize for. Goddamn triggers.
Old habits die hard.
C’mon, Getty. Get your shit together. He’s not Ethan. He’s just asking a valid question.
Working a swallow down my throat, I shift my feet and look out to the stormy sea—my happy place—to calm my nerves jittering out of control. I try to explain. “Is there anything you have in your life that you’re passionate about? A thing you do or place you go where you can get lost in yourself or . . . never mind.” I shake my head. Suddenly embarrassed that I sound as stupid as I feel.
“No, I want to hear what you have to say,” he says, which causes me to turn and look back to him. He takes a few steps toward me, genuine interest on his face, not the smarmy smirk I’m used to so that I can be mocked when I finish explaining.
“It’s stupid really. Probably makes sense only to me.”
“No.” He takes another step closer.
I can smell his cologne, or maybe it’s the scent of soap—it’s clean—and I open my mouth to argue, but nothing comes out more than a meek, “No?”
Another slow, intentional step. If I put my arm out, my hand would be in the middle of his chest. Close. Too close—in so many ways.
“No,” he answers resolutely. “I get it. More than you know. It’s your escape. Your way to deal with shit.”
Nothing like a guy to put it in plain speak and have it make perfect sense. “Yeah. Something like that.”
“If you sell them, it doesn’t make them any less yours . . . doesn’t stop the feeling you get when you paint. It just means you get to do something you love and make money from it.”
His points are valid and yet I still see my heart and soul cut open and on display for anyone to scrutinize, so while the thought is a good one, it’s not going to happen. “Hmm.” That and a shrug are all I give him in response, because it’s food for thought but probably not something I’m ever going to take a bite out of.
“You just need to—”
“Boundaries,” I warn, needing him to know he’s treading on shaky ground that I don’t want to be treading on. The emotions of the morning have abraded my psyche and I don’t want to be pushed any further. I’ve already shown him too much of myself as it is.
He nods his head, a silent acknowledgment that he’s heard me. All I can do is hope he’s going to keep on his side of the line.
“You’re talented, Getty. There’s no doubt about that.”
I look away from him, the room suddenly in shadow as the clouds shift outside, and his next step toward me blocks the glow of light from the lamp. The room feels way too small, way too intimate without the harshness of the desk light.
