“We did some homesteading, so there was always harvesting or weeding or canning to do. Mornings you feed the chickens, evenings you go gather eggs. You know, farming stuff.”
“That’s fascinating.” He leaned forward, his hand stroking one side of his cheek. Wow. He really was fascinated by nothing.
“I had a vanilla bean plant,” I said.
“What does a vanilla bean plant look like?”
“It’s a vine. Grew it right up a string in the greenhouse. I thought it would taste like vanilla ice cream. When a bean finally got ripe, I bit into it.”
“Isn’t real vanilla—”
“It’s the worst!” I grimaced while remembering it. “So bitter it stung my tongue. My dad laughed and laughed.”
“What is your family like?”
“They’re fine. Nice. Normal. My mom makes the best quilts and my dad yells at the TV during political debates and baseball.”
I cupped my chin in my hand.
“How about you?” I asked.
“Me?” He looked surprised for a moment, then relaxed. “Oh, that’s right. I forget that you don’t know anything about me.”
“The elusive Jake Carville.”
For a second, his mouth turned down at both corners. Then he composed his face into a teasing expression.
“Am I that elusive? I’m all over TV, you know.”
I shrugged.
“I don’t have a TV. So sue me.”
“I think I’m beginning to realize why…”
“Why what?”
“Nothing. Nothing,” he said. “So why are you here?”
“Here? I’m here because an eccentric oversexed billionaire kidnapped me and brought me here.”
That brought a smile to Jake’s face. A real smile, one that crinkled the corners of his eyes. It made him look even more handsome, if that was possible. He forked a piece of pancake up and held it out to me. I took the bite gratefully.
“No, I mean, why are you here in New York City?”
I sighed. I remembered the farm, remembered leaving it, waving goodbye to my mom. My dad had already gone out to the fields to finish the harvest. He wasn’t ever much for goodbyes. Even when I called them, he would grunt a few hellos over the phone and then pass it on to the rest of the family.
Why was I here? I had almost forgotten over the past year.
“I moved here when I realized that Iowa wasn’t exactly the place to make it as a budding artist.”
“So you’re here as an artist.”
“Sort of. I mean, I’m trying. I saved up enough money for a train ticket and a small room to sublet, and I came out here. Now I’m waitressing and bartending. Doing absolutely everything except art. Well, I do art when I can.”
I thought of the subway cars, of spray paint cans and paint markers. Of running away from security guards who caught me painting flowers on the aluminum siding.
I yawned, cupping a hand to my mouth.
“You must be so tired.”
“A little.” The pancakes had settled into the bottom of my stomach, and my stupidly high libido had calmed down. The previous night was starting to catch up with me. When had I slept last? I didn’t even remember.
“Let’s get you to bed.”
“Okay. Wait! I have to call in sick for work.” My boss at the diner would kill me if I didn’t show up. I was supposed to be there at eleven, and I was pretty sure I wasn’t going to make it in at all. Oh well. I’d never taken a sick day before. She could deal with it.
“I’ll take care of it.”
“Okay.”
He sounded so gentle, so sure. He would take care of everything. Of course. He had control, didn’t he? Complete control.
***
He picked me up in both arms, as before. But this time, he held me so gently that I could have sworn I was floating on clouds. My head lolled against his shoulder. All of the paint on me had dried over my skin and underwear.
I was tired, so tired. If I had a few cups of coffee, I would have been okay to work. In my mind, I could see all of the disgruntled customers. The endless plates of food. My boss, pacing the floor.
But it was okay to take a sick day. That would be fine. He would call. Jake would call them. And I would sleep…
Where would I sleep?
I lifted my head from his shoulder and peered ahead. He was carrying me down the hallway. I could see the paintings on either side of me, their elaborately carved wood frames glinting and gilded. The carpet, plush like the thick grass that used to grow under the oak tree in my backyard.
“Where are we going?” I mumbled.
“So curious. We’re taking you to bed.”
“To your bed?”
The expression on his face showed a slight shock, and his next step was quicker. He strode down the hallway to another door, this one diagonal to the art studio.