I opened a few windows to let in some fresh air, and then I curled up on the couch. He was wrong about it being boring. Just the opposite—I found it fascinating.
This was a very different Tory than the man I was used to. He was usually so polished and perfectly put together. Now he was barefoot and dressed in a form-fitting tank top and baggy basketball shorts. His thick, dark hair was unruly, and his usually very short beard had grown out a bit, which gave him a rugged appearance. He was sexy in a suit, but he was even sexier like this.
I was impressed by his focus, and the way he boldly and confidently attacked the canvas. He knew exactly what he was doing, and he was damn good at it. I could see him holding himself back, though. This had to be a perfect reproduction, so there was no room for artistic expression. It was like watching a racehorse that was being forced to slow down, even though it was capable of much greater things.
I couldn’t wait to help Tory set up a studio once we got back home. I was dying to see what he was capable of when he was given free rein.
After a couple of hours, I brought him some water and convinced him to take a break. As I rubbed his shoulders, I asked, “Do you ever work with music playing?”
“Yes, almost always, but that’s not an option here.”
I said, “Hold that thought,” and ran out of the room. A few minutes later, I returned with a boombox and a storage folder that was full of CDs. “All the technology in this house is a few decades old,” I said, as I plugged in the music player. “The movie library is mostly VHS tapes. But hey, if you like music from fifteen or twenty years ago, have I got the collection for you.”
Tory grinned and took a seat beside me on the couch. As we flipped through the pocketed pages, he said, “There’s actually some good stuff in here.”
“Do you think this is Ashcroft’s personal music stash?”
“I really don’t. I believe he’s in his late sixties, and he seems more the symphony type.”
“Maybe this belonged to a far-too-young-for-him girlfriend.”
“I could see that.” He selected a Maroon 5 disc and loaded it into the boombox before going back to work.
As he mixed some paint on his palette, I said, “My son had this album. He used to play it on repeat.”
“So did I. It came out a year or so after my parents died. My uncle and I were bouncing around Italy, and I had a backpack that held all of my worldly possessions, including a portable music player. I remember buying this album right when it came out and playing it over and over.”
“That doesn’t add up.”
“What do you mean?”
“My son was around thirteen when this album was released.”
“Right. And I was about sixteen.”
I stopped flipping through the CD holder and looked up at him. “How old are you, Tory?”
“Thirty-two.”
His words hung in the air for several moments. I couldn’t quite believe what I’d heard.
When I didn’t say anything, he said, “But you knew that, right?” I shook my head, and he asked, “How old did you think I was?”
“Forty? Maybe forty-two?”
“Really? You think I look ten years older than my actual age?”
“No, it’s not that. I guess I made an assumption when we met, based on how you seemed, not on how you looked. You’re so mature and pulled together. It’s like you’ve figured out this whole adulting thing, way more than I ever did.”
He looked concerned. “Is my age a problem?”
I thought about it before saying, “If you’d told me you were thirty-two the night we met, I would have decided on the spot that a fourteen-year age gap was way too much, and that I couldn’t possibly get involved with someone so close to my son’s age.”
“I don’t?—”
“Let me finish.” I crossed the room and took his hands in mine. “But I would have been wrong, Tory. I would have made a huge mistake and missed out on a beautiful relationship with the most wonderful man I’ve ever known. I’m so glad you didn’t tell me how old you were, because it gave me a chance to get to know you without any biases or preconceived ideas.”
“I didn’t keep it from you intentionally. I guess it just never came up.”
