From the Inside Out: The Compilation (Scorned, Jealousy, Dylan, Austin) (9 page)

It’s stunning.

He’s stunning.

Annoyingly so, and more than he was back then. My hate isn’t as strong as it once was, not even matching the emotions I felt a few weeks ago. Does this feeling lead to
like
one day or will I be living with a lighter version of this hate forever?
I’m disconcerted by my kinder thoughts toward him and spin to return to my office, hoping to remain unseen.

“Jules?”

I stop, but don’t turn around while taking a deep breath before releasing a shaky exhale.

He’s in my gallery, so I must play nice, I must play hostess. It’s my job and there are other visitors, witnesses around. Instead of avoiding him like I want to, I turn with purpose as if I intended to speak to him the whole time. “This Chihuly is quite remarkable,” I start, sticking to my role. “I haven’t seen those shades accomplished this eloquently before. And we’ve had a few Chihuly’s over the years.”

He’s not buying my act. I can see it in his eyes. I worry he still knows me too well. He plays along with my game. “It’s interesting. Pretty.”

Novice description.
There’s no deep emotion evoked when something’s called interesting or pretty.

I start to turn back around, since I have nothing more to say, but apparently he does, “Wait. Please. Can you spare a few minutes?”

The interns provide a happy diversion. They’re sloppily dressed, which is unacceptable, but when I look at my watch, they don’t have time to change. I lead them into the office and point at the painting, reminding them of the delicate nature of the piece they’re handling.

Stepping into the doorway, I reply, “Only a minute.” I sigh as if he’s interrupting my important business of avoiding him.

He’s cautious in his expression, realizing that him needing to speak with me is not a mutual desire. In thought, he eyes the wood floor beneath his feet, drawing my gaze down with him. His shoes are Gucci, easily identifiable in design. I look him over as I scan back up to see his face. His suit is tailored to fit… in all the right ways. He’s too handsome to be such a bastard, his looks wasted because of his lack of soul.

Catching me appreciating the physical package he presents, his smile turns hubristic and I shrug, silently admitting my act. Owning it, I cross my arms over my chest and raise my chin a bit. I look him directly in the eyes and wait for him to say his peace.

“I don’t know why I’m here,” he says. “It’s as if I was already here before my reasoning kicked in. I know you don’t want to see me. The other day at my office, I could tell. I could also tell how much I’ve hurt you, the pain I’ve caused. But ever since I saw you…” He runs his hand through his hair, then gets this determined look on his face.

I grip the doorway not sure if I want this conversation to continue, but the silence holds me captive. His eyes hold me prisoner. I’m statue still when he steps closer. My breath caught in my chest. I grip harder, my fingers curling around the casing.

“I should go,” he says, then rushes out the open front doors.

My fingers release and I push off the wall, running after him. “Wait!”

Suddenly being face to face with him like this, I’m not sure what to say. He waits for me to speak this time, for me to say something. Expectations I falsely gave him when I chased him down. I have nothing left to say, nothing except, “You didn’t finish. What were you going to say?” I shift uncomfortably, keeping five feet between us. “Ever since you saw me? What, Dylan?”

His face contorts and this time I see the pain in his eyes when he replies, “I can’t stop thinking about you.”

My response is automatic, not rehearsed. “You must.”

“I tried.
I’m trying,
but I’m failing—miserably.”

“Why?”

“Because I can’t stop.”

“You left! And you’re trying to not think about me?” My anger peaks. “Fuck you!” Years of pent up emotion building and releasing together. “You’re all I’ve thought about for 3 years.” I turn abruptly and go inside, grab my purse from under my desk, and march straight toward the back door. The severe click of my heels against the polished floors exposes everyone in the room to my mood. I yell for the evening manager to lock up, then quickly escape out back, slipping into the waiting van. I have a short ten minute ride to pull my shit back together before this delivery, before my date with Austin begins.

THE ELEVATOR DEPOSITS
us right into Austin’s apartment—the penthouse.

He isn’t there when the shiny silver doors open in front of us, but then he is, rounding a corner with a gorgeous smile and warm greetings, welcoming and surprisingly, bare foot. So casually dressed and so sexy. He kisses me on the cheek as his hands hold my shoulders, professional, yet I feel the tingling of something more developing.

I wonder if he does.

I have staff with me, so I must behave. He winks at me before greeting them. I stand and wait for instructions. He’s the client. He should make the decisions.

“How about setting it over there against that wall? I haven’t quite decided and would like to get Ms. Weston’s professional opinion on how to best highlight the painting.”

After setting the painting down, the interns look to me, so I thank them before walking them to the elevator with a reminder to drive safe and that we have an employee meeting on Monday morning. They leave and we’re alone. Austin’s turned on some music, classic rock. Another pleasant discovery about this charming man.

“Wine?
Or
…” He jogs into the kitchen and comes back out just as quickly to show me. “I found this great Gossett champagne. My wine guy pulled it from the reserves for me.”

He has a wine guy.
I’m impressed.
His excitement is contagious and I smile, relaxing. “The champagne. We should celebrate.”

“We can drink to the Rusque finding a home.” On a mission to open the bottle, he goes back into the kitchen. “Make yourself at home, Jules.” His voice travels from the confines of the other room.

I study his décor—clean, neutral palette, highlighting the artwork. I like that. I used to be more eclectic, warmer in my taste… back when I was with Dylan. I had a much more carefree style. Over the years, I’ve learned that clutter is confining and never replaced any of the knick knacks he took the day he left me.

Looking at the walls, a large painting hangs above the couch. It seems to be the one piece I didn’t sell him.

Handing me a glass of champagne, he says, “I picked that up in Europe four years ago. It caught my eye and I had to have it. Do you like it?”

“It’s lovely,” I reply, studying the bright colors up top that fade to a gradient mix with the muted base tones. “It’s a great find. I’ve not seen anything like that here. It’s unique in its composition.”

“That’s exactly how I felt when I saw it, but could never put it into words so perfectly.” Tapping the fluted crystal against mine, he toasts, “To new friends and amazing art.”

“To amazing friends and new art,” I add, the crystal chiming between us.

We sip, then he says, “Let me show you around and you can help me find a place to hang the new one.”

Most of the paintings he’s purchased from me hang gallery style down the long and wide hallway. He says, “I had it designed this way to showcase the paintings.”

“It’s an art lovers’ dream. Have you had your place photographed professionally?”

“Once, last year,” he looks down, seeming self-conscious. “It was silly really, a local publication.”

We stop in his bedroom and I see the Cirie I sold him three years ago on Valentine’s Day. “That’s more powerful than I remember,” I note, staring at it hanging above his headboard.

He stands there, analytical, before saying, “The deep burgundy blending into the more subtle red, but stopping before it turns pink. I can feel the passion behind it. Cirie knew when to stop. It’s not feminine—”

“Or masculine,” I say, interrupting, “just beautiful.”

I hear him whisper behind me, “Yes, so beautiful.”

I glance over my shoulder.

His eyes are on me.

I blink and turn back to face the painting. “Yes, it’s pure passion. Above the bed is the perfect place for it to hang.”

He steps closer, silently admiring… the painting or me, I’m not sure. His fingers brush against my elbow. His voice comes out lower, “Come with me. I’ll show you where I was thinking the Rusque could go.”

Liking his touch when his hands are on me, I follow him into another room sticking close. Much like Austin, his office is breathtaking. The room is identical to his bedroom with two full walls of windows, but this room has no curtains to block the world out. He stands back, leaning against the door as I explore the room. The other two walls are white and bare, needing something, craving something vibrant.

“I think the painting should go right here. It feels right.” I turn around abruptly and ask in all seriousness, “Do you use this room?”

“All the time.”

I release my relief through an exhale. “Good. I would hate for that piece to be abandoned in some room that’s never used, where it would never be seen.”

“So would I. Your passion for art is very sexy.”

“Art is sexy.”

“Indeed.”

I sip then gulp my drink, eyeing him, admiring his lean and fit figure. “It must be hard to date a tycoon,” I joke, the bubbles going to my head. “The world is at your feet, literally right outside the window and down thirty-seven flights.”

“I’ve never dated a tycoon,” he retorts. “So I wouldn’t know.”

I laugh and he smiles at the sound. Sipping my drink, each bubble bursts in my mouth. I walk to a window and look out. “It’s a long way to fall.”

“No further than Heaven and you survived that.” Laughing out loud, I try to contain the roll of my eyes that wants to escape from his corny comment. “I’m sorry. I always wanted to know what it was like to say one of those awful pick-up lines and you gave me the perfect set up.”

“I think you’ve been carrying that around in your back pocket for about fifteen years too long,” I tease.

He grins. “Maybe longer. I’ve been interested in girls for a long time now, Jules.”

“I just bet you have.” I punctuate my words with a wink.

Standing in front of him, the silliness between us alters into something more, something with depth and it scares me. I swallow hard, trying to change it back by asking, “Do you believe in love at first sight, Austin, or should I walk by again?” Together, we laugh this time from my bad pickup line. Walking past him, I bump his hip with mine playfully, then with my smirk still in place, I say, “Now feed me, I’m hungry.”

Following behind, he says, “If I knew you better I’d…” but catches himself and stops.

I lean against the wall between two bold, modern paintings, a bit breathless, a lot playful. “You’d what? What would you do if we knew each other better?”

His feet stop in front of mine and a roguish smile plays on his lips. “If we knew each other better, I would have slapped your ass for that pun.”

“Consider us good friends then, but let’s skip the ass slap, even as appealing as that sounds…” His eyebrow arches, his body leans forward, one hand stationed above my head. Our breathing picks up, but also deepens, both of us wanting more. I finish by saying, “… And just kiss me.”

His hand is on my neck, sliding upward over my jaw, caressing my cheek. “You are a fascinating woman, Ms. Weston.” His lips press against mine. They’re soft, yet purposeful. Full and wonderful. My eyes are closed, enjoying, savoring, wanting more. He pulls back and our eyes slowly open. The tip of his finger glides along my bottom lip. Leaning in again for a quick, sweet kiss, he says, “You said something about being hungry—”

“Yes, starving.” In more ways than one right now. My body craving him more than food.

He takes my hand and we walk back to the kitchen. “Rao’s?” I ask when I see the bags on the counter.

“I like it. It’s impossible to get into the restaurant as you know, but I have kitchen connections and get take-out every couple of months.”

“You went to a lot of effort for tonight.”

“You’re worth it,” he replies not understanding how much it means that someone thinks I’m worth the effort. He starts unpacking the bags. “Hope you like spaghetti and meatballs. I got the house salad and dessert.” He raises his eyebrows up and down when he says dessert. It’s really quite cute.