Hazel
Isold out of paintings by that afternoon. I packed up the extra wrapping paper. Though I made some money, I was still feeling stressed. I needed to have made more if I wanted to save my café.
"Since I'm here, I want to get some more work done on the painting for Archer's convention hall," I told my friends. Jemma and Olivia hoisted Ida upright.
"I'm taking her home to sleep this off," Olivia said, sounding mildly disgusted.
Taking my easel, I managed to sneak up a fire escape on the other side of the building and set up at the spot where I was doing the rendering. I immediately relaxed once I started painting. The late-afternoon light was amazing. It bathed the site in a warm glow with crisp shadows. It was like a Dutch master's painting laid out before me.
I had always romanticized painting at an easel, sitting outside. Though all the pictures of puppies and baby animals were from photographs, I didn't like painting from photos if I could help it.
I worked quickly, capturing the play of light on the buildings. I wasn't working on the whole painting but spot painting, which I would fill in later. I just wanted to capture the various moments.
I sighed as the sun set behind the ten-story brick building, the largest on the site. I packed up the painting, careful not to smudge anything. I felt invigorated from all the creative energy—and from seeing Archer.
The way he walked through the space like he owned it, which if I did my job right, he soon would, was magnetic. He was also adorable with his brothers. As much as Meg and I sometimes fought, I would do anything for my sisters. I appreciated that Archer felt the same way about his brothers.
I biked back slowly to my café. I was sweaty and grungy. All I wanted was a hot shower and some chocolate raspberry cheesecake. I wished Archer had let me take those raspberries. They were perfectly fine.
The pipes clanked as they slowly pumped the hot water to my shower. I had my tiny bedroom in a closet on the third floor. Yes, I was back in a closet, but at least it was my own closet. It even had a skylight. Next to it, in its own closet, was a crumbling acrylic shower. The toilet was in yet another closet and had one of those pull chains from the nineteen twenties. The cracked pedestal sink sat outside in my studio space.
All in all, my third-floor studio apartment was not the glamourous space I always wanted to live in. The whole place was tiny and gross, but as soon as I had enough money, I was going to gut it, fix all the plumbing issues, and design a beautiful light-filled studio and living space.
At least the water was hot. I stepped into the shower, letting it wash the grime off of me. As I stood under the spray, the relaxing hot water suddenly turned freezing cold. Screaming, I struggled to jump out of the shower, swinging the door out and stumbling into the open studio space.
Gasping from the shock of the cold, I pulled a towel around me. The towel rack pulled out of the wall and clanged to the floor. I screamed again out of rage.
"Why doesn't anything go right?" I wailed.
I heard a bang and froze. Someone was in my building. Did I lock the door? I couldn't remember. If I had, how had they gotten in? I looked around in a panic for a weapon as I heard footsteps pounding up the stairs.
I scrounged the metal towel bar that had fallen off the wall. Clutching my towel against me, I hoisted the metal bar and hid behind the shower door. The bar was heavier than it looked, and my arm was trembling.
The footsteps came closer, and I peeked around the door to see a black-clad figure turn around the wall at the stair landing. I swung. The man ducked, and the towel rack embedded into the wall.
"What the hell?" Archer yelled.
"What are you doing here?" I shrieked at him.
His eyes widened when he saw I was in a towel. He clapped a hand over his face.
"I thought you were being attacked!" he said. "I heard you scream. I thought—I'm sorry."
"Hand me my clothes," I said, scurrying into my bedroom closet. My voice was trembling. "I wasn't attacked," I said when he handed me the yoga pants and crop top I had worn earlier and thrown on the floor because I didn't think a man was coming into my apartment.
"My water heater went out," I said to him. "It was freezing."
Archer swore.
"How did you get in here? I locked the door. You better not have broken my door," I warned.
"I hope you aren't relying on that lock to keep you safe. All I needed was my credit card and a good shove to open it," he said. "Also," he continued when I walked back into my room, tying up my hair, "why is your shower in a closet?"
"We can't all live in fancy houses," I told him. "It's fine. It's historic. Stuff breaks, yes, but it's part of the charm."
"Let me take a look at it."
"What can you do?" I scoffed. "You're some fancy-pants billionaire. You don't fix stuff."
