Work that tells the subject more about herself than she knew… and tells me far more about Zane, as well.
Because this is the type of art inspired by obsession, by infatuation, by love.
“When did you—” I can’t complete the question, throat seizing as I stare, look away to Zane, then have to stare again.
He walks up behind me, slipping his arms around my waist, pressing a soft kiss to my naked shoulder. “The Sunday before last. It’s not great but I have ideas. The next one will be so much better.”
Sunday.
I feel like beating him around the head. “You had this out here all the time and you didn’t think to show me?”
Since Thursday, I’ve been struggling, half-convinced every overture Zane made was driven by deceit. A way to manipulate me. It took so much effort to look past his betrayals to believe his attraction was genuine.
The way he leapt to my rescue got me most of the way there, but I’m appalled at the mental contortions I went through when he had the evidence slotted on a drying rack the whole time.
“Is something wrong?”
I turn around in his arms, throwing mine around his neck, kissing him everywhere I can reach; his chest, his neck, his cheek, tugging him closer all the while until my lips finally lock to his, exploring the exquisite treat of his mouth. And I stay there until the effervescent joy bubbling out of me transforms into something deeper, my own declaration of love.
And when the kiss finally dissolves into tearful giggles, I shake my head and answer, “No. Everything is perfect.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
AVON
December– four months later
When I enter the studio, Zane is on a stool, staring at the ceiling, an empty canvas on the easel in front of him. It takes a few seconds for him to return from wherever he goes inside his head, then he spins, jumping off his chair to greet me with a kiss.
“Still not done thinking?”
“Nah. This one’s got all caught in the upstairs processing.”
His phrasing makes me laugh. Having spent so much time together over the past months, I’ve grown used to the difference in our methods, but I’m still struck on occasion.
I start straight on the canvas, slowly, methodically building up the layers of paint and colour, expanding and adapting my original vision until it’s as close as I can make it.
Zane sits and stares at the blankness, filling and discarding things inside his head. Sometimes for hours, usually for days. On a few memorable occasions, weeks.
Then he’ll fill his palette, select his tools, and go. Wham. Bam. And an hour later, perfection. Even if he grunts and gives exasperated ticks of his tongue.
During those sessions, I’m green with envy. More than once pushing myself to move faster, destroying the progress I’ve made with the effort.
But during his times of reflection, I wouldn’t swap our methods for the world. If I had to stare at nothing for too long, my mind would go correspondingly blank.
He cups my face, the rough pad of his thumb teasing a dozen tiny sparks into existence on the soft skin of my cheek. Little ignitions that would only take a gentle puff to expand into a roaring fire.
“Are you going to tell me how it went, or do I have to force that information out from you?”
The softly spoken words perform their magic trick, making my throat pull tight while my core turns molten.
But the rush of desire is lost under a larger flood of enthusiasm.
“It was fantastic.” My smile stretches so wide, my head is in danger of splitting in two. “We hung piece after piece, checking them against the others for sale, working out which displays would work best. Changing the heights, the frames, the…everything.”
“How many did you take along?”
“Four. But we had to test all the different combinations. Gail is reserving the other two for interested buyers, even though I just took them along as spare.”
