Overlooked(2)(32)

“So anyway, in college, my friend Amy and I took a Greyhound to New York. We spent all day in The Met, slept in the grottiest hostel ever, spent another day at The Met, then caught an overnight bus home.”

“I can take you back there too, if you want. We’ll stay in the penthouse of my hotel and fuck all night.”

I fold my arms and roll my eyes but still can’t help laughing. “You can’t just woo me with your money.”

“I’m not trying to. If you haven’t noticed, I’m not exactly the kind of guy who woos.”

“Well, whatever it is you’re trying to do.”

“I’m trying to get in your pants.”

“You are such an ass. But if you missed it, you already got in my pants.”

“Don’t worry, I didn’t forget.”

I’m now a day behind on finishing the scarecrow painting — two days if I don’t leave here soon.

“I really have to get home now to work on my paintings.”

“What car do you want to go in? The Range Rover? Maserati? SLK?”

“Not that I care about overpriced cars, but let’s take the Maserati, I want to hear the noise.”

Lawson revs the engine a few times, a roaring purr that grabs my attention. We take off down his street, the engine singing. I hate the effect it has on me, but I’m tingling between my legs.

Laughing, he looks at me, “It’s good, isn’t it?”

I want to call him an ass, but I shake my head. I’m not admitting what it’s doing to me.

“You know, they’ve scientifically proved that the sound of a Maserati turns women on, biologically.”

“You don’t say.”

Though I’d never admit it, fantasies fill my head for the entire journey of him ripping my clothes off and bending me over the hood. I can’t help it.

The feeling passes when we pull into Ava’s driveway. I hang my head, feeling like I’m fifteen all over again. Even though it’s my first, this is going to be the world’s worst walk of shame.

“Do you want to come in?”

Lawson responds by switching off the engine and opening his door. I guess that’s a yes.

Ava doesn’t appear to be home. I lead him through to my studio.

“Those are both incredible.” Lawson stands in front of them, his arms folded.

“Thanks. I think you said that already.”

“Are they for Kelso’s?”

“His stuff is all being painted on-site. These are for private sale.”

“I thought you weren’t going back to Kelso’s.” His arms drop first to his sides, and then he brings his hands to his hips and stares at me.

“Of course I am, why wouldn’t I?”

“Because it isn’t safe. I’m telling you. If he gets you alone, there’s no telling what he’d do to someone as hot as you.”

“How naïve do you think I am?” I say, narrowing my eyes at him.

“You don’t know him. I do.”

“Look, the creep is still away in Florida anyway.”

“He won’t be there forever. Walk away before something happens.”

“It’s fine, stop trying to stop me going. I am going. End of story. This is a job, and I am doing it.”

“I’m going to get you an assistant.”

“No way, no how.”

Lawson lets out a long, drawn-out sigh. I expect him to do something: touch me, hug me, something, but all he does is stand with his hands on his hips, holding my gaze in his.

I swallow. Part of me is on the verge of falling into line and doing what he wants. From somewhere within me, I find the ability to tear my eyes away from his. They fall on my half-finished paintings and the resolve to carry on at Kelso’s rages back through me.

I throw my smock over the dress I’m still wearing from Friday, and start preparing my paints. Lawson leans on the windowsill, watching me.

“I should paint.”

“Can I watch?”

“That’s fine with me.” When I’m creating, the whole world drops away. It used to drive my mother crazy that I’d never hear her calling me; she’d have to come and physically touch me to get my attention. It was the same for my teachers and classmates in college.

Ava has it marginally better, she only has to walk in into the room, instead of touching me. Part of me sees that as a sign I’m losing my ability to focus.

Now, with Lawson in the room, I struggle to find any focus at all. Not willing to make mistakes, I put everything down and rip off my smock in frustration.

“What’s wrong?” he asks.

“You distract me. I can’t focus.” My voice is playful. I like having him here, even if he does try to tell me what to do. But I have to finish these paintings so I can start generating ideas for the next ones.