Total pages in book: 75
Estimated words: 71915 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 360(@200wpm)___ 288(@250wpm)___ 240(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 71915 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 360(@200wpm)___ 288(@250wpm)___ 240(@300wpm)
“Cool,” he said from behind me. “I’ll ask around.”
He led me through the studio door, where he signed a clipboard hanging by a string. A strong whiff of paint and something acrid, almost sour, assaulted my nose, and I nearly sneezed. But then I was distracted by everything around me. I took in the different areas of the room, where a handful of artists worked on paintings or sculptures, intent on their tasks. Barely anyone even looked our way.
“So…here’s my little corner of the art world.” Remy began uncovering canvases stored on the floor and placed one on the easel in front of him. There was such vulnerability in his tone that my chest ached. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
“Warn me? About—holy crap!” The words flew out of my mouth as I stepped closer to the three canvases he was working on, and to me, they instantly stood out in the room. Not that the other creations weren’t striking, but his work was jaw-dropping. “Amazing. Are these for your final project?”
His cheeks were flushed, and he shyly looked away, a stark difference from his confidence in other situations. “They might be contenders. But they’re still a work in progress.”
“Well, I certainly wouldn’t be able to tell.” One painting was of a woman with her head inside a fishbowl, and another was a large teacup with rough waters sloshing over the rim, gloomy clouds, and lightning overhead. The third was the most astonishing. It was of a naked man crouched in the corner of a room with his hands shielding his head, and pieces of him were coming apart and flying away in what resembled a dust storm. “These are… I’m speechless.”
He sidled up beside me as if inspecting his art from a different point of view. “It’s called surrealism. It combines reality with a dreamy state of consciousness.”
And now the posters in his room made sense. It was the same style of art. Look at me, learning something through osmosis.
“It’s weird and magical and absolutely gorgeous,” I said—and probably a little too loudly because a couple of students on the other side of the room looked over at us. “Sorry.”
“Thank you,” Remy said, pressing our shoulders together, and the contact immediately warmed my belly.
“You should be proud of yourself, Remy. Hell, I’d want to hang one of these in my future house.”
“Sold!” he said with a grin. “That might be the best I can do. There are so many artists in the world, and some give up after struggling for years. But it’s in my blood, so I’ll eventually figure it out.”
“There may be lots of artists, but there’s only one you,” I pointed out. “And only you have your unique vision of the world.”
“Damn, Carl. You getting all deep and philosophical on me?”
I smirked. “Suppose I am, Ted. It’s being around all this art. It does something to the brain.”
I found a place to sit on the floor and watched him work as artists came and went, doing their thing. It was nearly as serene as morning swim practice when we were all groggy at first but then came to life as we warmed up in the water.
Remy was self-conscious at first, fidgeting a bit before he felt comfortable enough to continue. I felt guilty but not enough to leave. Something kept me riveted, and I was glad I stayed because eventually, he got lost in his art, and it was stunning. I couldn’t stop watching the stroke of his brush against the canvas, mesmerized by his vision as it poured out of his fingertips in an array of colors. Like the paint and canvas were part of him, and this was the purest way of expressing himself.
“If you keep looking at me like that, I might turn you into my muse,” he murmured over his shoulder, and it was so surprising that it sent a zing of electric energy through me.
“How am I looking at you?” I asked, my voice a bit gruff.
He met my eyes. “Like you want to drag me into the dark room they use for photography.”
“Is that even a possibility?” I looked around, searching for that room, my skin tingling.
He laughed in this singsong way that made my heart full. Fuck, he was hot.
“Does Bailey know you’re here?” he asked, knowing full well we were crossing some line he’d set between us.
“No, but…not sure Bailey has any say in what I—we—do with our private time,” I said, and he arched an eyebrow. “Obviously, he’s still my best friend and your brother, so I can see why he might…”
“A brother who doesn’t talk to me anymore, so I have less to lose.”
My stomach dropped, and suddenly it felt like the whole vibe was ruined.
“But,” he added, “I won’t deny I like having you here.”
My heart throbbed as I silently considered the situation and how much I wished it could be different and way less stressful. But the heart wants what it wants. Okay, maybe south of my heart. But if it were that simple, I could’ve easily gotten my needs met elsewhere.