When I'd rifled through the warehouse-sized supply room after she deposited me in the studio on the first day of my residency, I hadn't intended to sculpt anything. But I'd happened upon some pale birch and the magic took charge. Two hours later, I had a dove in my hands.
Since then, I'd fever-dreamed a small flock of birds to life. Goldfinch, chickadee, sparrow, meadowlark, even a nice, plump dove. I'd decided it meant absolutely nothing. I wasn't sculpting birds that reminded me of her in peculiar ways for any profound reason. Muses came in all shapes and forms—music, weather, nature, women—and they went just as quickly. None of them meant a damn thing.
Save for the small issue of me gifting her those birds. All previous muses servedmeand my needs. I'd never served them. I didn't intend to change my ways now.
Except…I already was. I was craftingbyher andforher, and that was the last fucking thing I wanted.
I shrugged off that inconvenient realization and went back to my mountain range. I had several pages filled with increasingly twisted interpretations of the geography. I couldn't sketch anything without traveling down a winding path and then turning it inside out. As far as my mind's eye was concerned, nothing was what it seemed.
These mountains were born of a blood feud, rock against rock, one rising up as the other bowed down. The Santa Cruz range stood as a tribute to the victor but also a reminder of its strength. The cost of that strength was in its scars. The terrible, rippled lesion of the San Andreas Fault served as a reminder of the fight.
Everything was a product of a long, blistering history. I couldn't see it any other way.
An airplane sliced my line of sight, its roar echoed by my growl at the interference. I glanced down at the sketch. The page was a mess of anthropomorphic earth at war with itself, line and smudge void of purpose and composition. If there was any vision here, I couldn't find it. Burning the whole damn thing would be the kindest solution by far.
I pocketed the charcoal and closed my sketchbook. "That's some real dog shit," I mumbled to myself.
I ran the back of my hand over my forehead as I frowned at the sunlight blanketing the cloudless sky. Today was the warmest since my arrival in early June, but a hot day in the Bay Area had nothing on Arizona's heat. I missed the wilderness and my place in it, but I could enjoy this temperate weather.
Then, I saw her in the distance, her dark skin shining in the afternoon sun like burnished bronze. She zipped down the sidewalk like a hummingbird starved for nectar.Oh, fuck. A hummingbird."Speak of the fuckin' devil."
Miz Malik. She introduced herself that way, like some kind of prim, old-world maiden.
But there was nothing prim or maidenly about her. She wanted to play the part of the proper businesswoman, but heaven help me, she failed miserably. Anyone with lips like that would. Full, plump, dusky pink. Always pursed, as if she was biting that silver tongue of hers.
Luscious. Rubens was rolling in his grave and cursing the limits of his natural life for missing the opportunity to paint this voluptuous woman.
It was too bad she was so fucking insufferable.
The lady didn't know how to slow down to walk. If she'd ever stopped to smell the roses, I was certain she'd follow it up with a performance evaluation on the quality of their blooms.
But that hair. Dark and silky, just long enough to brush her shoulders. It shone like obsidian and spilled like a waterfall. My fingers itched to stroke those strands, feel it sliding between my fingers, carve an ode to it in stone.
I should've stayed in the tree. I should've kept my distance. Should've drunk in the sight of her and then attacked some wood.
I didn't.
Instead, I swung down from the tree and landed on the grass with a thud. "Good afternoon, Miz Malik."
The simple black dress she wore, the one designed for the singular purpose of showcasing her hips, defined entrapment. I couldn't stop myself from tracing the lines of her body with my gaze. I figured the dress hailed from a boutique for serious, reserved businesswomen, a shop that knew only the coolest hues of the color wheel. She didn't look serious or reserved. She looked like loosely restrained sin and the shiny persimmon shoes she wore only validated that. There was brightness and warmth inside her, but she kept it on a leash.
"What brings you out of the ivory tower?" I swiveled my head from side to side. "And where are your minions?"
She skittered to a stop, her hand pressed to her chest as she blinked between me and the tree.
"I—pardon me." She gestured to the oak. "Did you climb that tree, Mr. Guillmand?"
I tucked my sketchbook under my arm, dipped my hands into my pockets. "Yes, Miz Malik, I sure did."
She shook her head in tiny, tiny movements. All hummingbird. "Yes and—why?"
"Why not?" I shrugged. "What are trees for if not getting a look at the world from their vantage point?"
She shifted the hand on her chest to her forehead, murmuring, "That's a logical fallacy."
I turned away, wandering over the grass as she stared after me. "You never did answer my question," I called. She huffed out a snarl as I continued walking. "What are you doing out here on a nice day when you could be inside with the machines?"
I sensed her staring after me, a hot, unyielding glare. Here I was, walking away from her when most people devoured every word and bent eyebrow she offered. It was several minutes—excruciating minutes—before she abandoned the structure and comfort of the sidewalk, but even as the grass rustled under her steps, I still felt the heat of her gaze.
