For The One(67)

Cabinets and standing equipment lined the walls, along with a roll of different backdrops hanging from the ceiling. A large, high-end drafting table dominated the room, located just under the skylight. Upon that table were a variety of brushes, palettes, boxes of charcoal, pastels and containers of special pencils and erasers, all perfectly organized. I reached over to pick up a shiny metal ruler.

“Don’t touch,” he admonished. After a stern frown creased his brow, he added, “Please.”

My eyes widened and I pulled my hand back. Apparently, the studio was sacrosanct. “I don’t see any of your rules posted in here like in your smithy.”

“That’s because people are not permitted to come in here—besides me.”

I blinked. “Mia said she’s been here.”

“She stands in the doorway, as does everyone else. I don’t like having people in this space.”

“Do you want me to go stand over at the door?”

“No. Just—if you don’t touch anything, that would be good.”

I was a bit overwhelmed at the special status of being able to enter the artist’s temple when his closest loved ones could not. Did that reveal a certain level of special trust? A lump formed in my throat at the thought.

I fidgeted in my spot, then stuffed my hands in my pockets as if to reassure him that I would behave. “Deal.”

He went to one of the easels and removed a blank canvas from it, setting it carefully on the ground. Then he opened up a big cabinet and flipped through a few boards without looking at them. It was as if he knew exactly what he was looking for and exactly where it was.

Moving from the cabinet back to the now-empty easel, he slowly, tentatively set a board on it. Once I got a look at what was on that board, I about fell over in shock. I most certainly couldn’t breathe.

It was an absolutely exquisite acrylic painting of me… Holy. Shit.

Though he’d hinted that it might be lurid, in reality, it wasn’t at all. The image was a close-up of my head and shoulders, depicting me staring over my bare shoulder. I had no shirt on, but as I was turned away from the viewer, there were no anatomical details. Even if he had chosen to be more explicit, I could not have felt more special in that moment than if Dégas himself had painted me with not a stitch of clothing on.

It must have taken him forever, and it was so lovingly detailed—the glint in my eyes, the strands of hair splayed across my shoulders, the curve of my earlobe. I labored to draw my next breath. “I don’t ever remember you taking a photo of me. How—how did you do this?”

He seemed confused by my non sequitur question but answered anyway. “I don’t paint from photos. Photos are two-dimensional. My memory remembers everything in three dimensions. And I’ve seen you enough to recall the details in order to create this image.”

“So is that the reason you didn’t do a full-frontal depiction? Because you haven’t seen me naked?”

He looked away and shrugged.

I couldn’t take my eyes off the painting. It made me feel strange inside—special, like a queen. Janja, ti si kraljica. Those words in Papa’s voice popped into my head. Telling me I was a queen. I’d never felt like one again until this moment. I swallowed.

“Do you like it?” he asked.

I was blinking tears from my eyes. Like it?

“It’s stunning. I’m just so…”

“What?”

“Overwhelmed…” I shook my head. “You’re amazing, Wil.”

He didn’t reply, but he did turn back to look at the canvas.

“Would you paint me if I modeled for you?”

“Naked?” I laughed at his shocked face, which was good. It helped those strong emotions dissipate, and I welcomed that. Because with those memories came pain. And I didn’t want to remember. Not now.

“Yes, naked… Clearly, you don’t need me to be here for a head shot.”

He looked from my shoulder to the canvas and back again. “I don’t need you here while I paint.”

I smiled. “Okay, shall I just model for you now then?” I reached as if to pull my shirt up again—mostly because I wanted to rile him up a bit, but also because I couldn’t get over my sheer awe of his talent. He oozed with it, and I was confused and a little at a loss for how to act.

His brows rose in alarm. “Don’t take your shirt off again. I just got things under control,” he said with a glance at his crotch.

“I’m sorry…I’m just being goofy because I’m uncomfortable.” I sighed, dropping my arms to my sides. “You know, it’s really not fair.”

“What’s not fair?”