The thing about Dorien is that he’s the opposite of Mom when it comes to pain. She wants to gently probe and push, get me to “explore my feelings” or whatever. With Dorien, he’s just here with no pressure for me to say or do anything at all. He’ll sit in the same room with my hurt and never demand I explain it. That’s why I needed to escape here today. That’s why I’m doingsomething as insane as coming to his house alone, when three months ago I would’ve said I’d rather jump off a cliff than spend a Saturday with Dorien Kael.
“I won’t ask if you don’t want to talk about it,” he says.
“I don’t think I’m ready to talk about it.”
“Then I haven’t said anything.” The sounds of him working on clay resume. We had made an agreement to work together today on our pieces for the Alaria Prize, so that’s what we do.
I select a medium canvas and prop it on an easel near the window. I sit on the stool and stare at all the white. My mind is a blank gesso surface. There’s zero concept, no color calling to me or image forming behind my eyes.
I glance at Dorien. His hands move over clay with a certainty I envy right now. He knows exactly what he’s building.
“What’s your concept?” I ask.
He smirks without looking up. “Trying to steal it?”
I bite my lip and try not to smile. “No. I honestly have nothing in my head right now. I want to win and kick your butt, but I might not enter at all.”
He sets his clay down and walks over. Before I can react, he picks up a green acrylic tube from a small table I set up, pops the cap, squeezes a dot onto the center of my canvas, and smears it with his finger. There’s now a single streak of sap green across the white.
“There you go.” He wipes his finger on his jeans. “Call it ‘Reflection.’”
I burst out laughing. My face aches from it, and it feels good. “You’re so dumb,” I say, grinning.
He smiles, coppery-hazel eyes crinkling. It’s so handsome that my pulse beats harder at the base of my throat. During this past week I’ve missed this. His stupid, irritating attempts to get a reaction out of me. He’s been giving me time, and I appreciate it,but now he’s loosened me up and feelings are starting to surface. So many feelings I keep trying to deny.
“Go focus on your art,” I tell him, because if he stands this close any longer I’ll have to deal with the warmth spreading up the back of my neck.
He returns to his worktable. I take a brush and smear the green dot into an abstract streak. At least the canvas isn’t blank anymore, but I still have no concept. I sit here staring for several minutes and even paint a dumb flower in the corner of the canvas just to have something to do. Then I give up and get off the stool.
I wander. The studio is fairly large, much larger than mine, and toward the back there’s a section with shelves of finished and half-finished pieces. Sculptures in various sizes, some abstract, some figurative, bodies in motion.
I slow down. Several of the busts look oddly familiar. The angle of a jaw. The slope of a nose. I lean closer. One has my exact eyes, or pretty damn close. I reach for a sheet draped over a larger piece on the middle shelf and pull it away.
The sculpture is me. It’s my face, my shoulders, my collarbones. He’s captured the expression I make when I’m painting. Cinna snapped a picture of me once like that, so I know how I look: lips parted, brow furrowed, eyes focused on something that doesn’t exist in the real world. He sculpted me in the act of seeing.
I press a hand to my chest.
The tarp crinkles behind me. His warmth arrives at my back, close enough that I feel it along my spine.
“They’re me,” I say.
He inches closer. Then slowly, his arms slide around me from behind, careful enough that I could step away if I wanted to. His hands settle against my stomach. His chin hovers near my temple.
“Of course they’re you.” His voice is low and his breath moves through my hair. “No attempt I’ve ever made can get you out of my head.”
I fall back into him. My shoulders meet his chest and his arms tighten, and the scent of him closes around me, woodsmoke and rain. My body fits against his, pulling away slightly but not really wanting to.
Then my rational brain asks me, “What the hell are you doing?” So I pull away an inch. He holds on loosely. We’re both doing it, this push-pull between wanting and running. My fingers wrap around his forearm, half removing it, half keeping it there.
What are we doing?
He turns me slowly to face him and I don’t resist. His hands stay on my waist. My palms press flat against his chest where his heartbeat is pounding. His eyes are open, unguarded, searching my face.
“Don’t do it,” I whisper.
But that’s a lie because all I can think is,God, just fucking kiss me.
He cups my face with both hands. His thumbs trace along my jaw. He’s looking at my mouth.
