I look back over my shoulder to see a man and what looks like Heidi Klum’s twin sister cooing about a dark blob that’s masquerading as art but is actually a one-way trip to depression. The guy is…hotter than hell, with black hair and a set of lips that make me wish I’d brought my sketchpad and pencils.
I no longer do that after the last time I’d lost track of time and been asked to leave at closing time. But, and I hate to say this, with the super love I have for landscapes, I want to do something with this man that will dominate the canvas.
Something about him is just so…
“Oh, Vincent, I just love all this angst. To see and feel what the artist must have been feeling is so inspiring.”
I hear the overwrought tittering and grind my teeth against the need to tell the airhead that no matter what people think, they can never know what the artist was thinking.
I ignore the gushing and go back to my monthly fix, going over every minute detail, every brushstroke, every shadow and shade until I can go home and try my hand at it again. Here’s the print I’ve been searching for, and yet, it’s so pale in comparison.
“This one is my favorite, but I like The Artist’s Garden at Giverny too,” says a crisply accented voice.
British. How delicious.
I know who is standing behind me, and I freeze, feeling my breath stall as shivers and goose bumps break out all over my skin. He’s standing so close I smell his citrusy cologne and feel the heat of his breath at my nape.
“I…I prefer these stronger colors, but that one’s excellent too. It’s beautiful.”
It comes out a choked whisper, and I feel myself blush and tense when he leans to my left and peers down at me.
“You’ve been staring at it for over an hour before coming into the gift store. See something the rest of us don’t?”
His breath whispers over my ear and cheek, and it’s all I can do not to lean back into him and experience the tightly muscled chest visible beneath his suit jacket and shirt.
“I-I keep trying to paint it just so…but I can never commit it to memory enough to… The colors are never right.”
“That’s the problem with true art. One of a kind originals can never be faked exactly. Nor true beauty.”
His husky whisper has me turning against my will, and I gasp when a set of mint green eyes captures mine. I can say I have seen true beauty in every art form, but I have honestly never seen a man this intensely handsome before.
I won’t be obsessively painting the Sunflowers when I go home. Oh, no, it’s this perfect creature that will consume me until the wee hours of the morning, and I know exactly how I’ll capture him on my canvas.
“Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. Or so they say.”
His lips curve, and I spy a single dimple gracing his right cheek.
“Then let me say how truly honored I am to behold you.”
“Oh God, does that work on every woman you try to pick up, or am I just lucky?” I ask, laughing at the cheesiness of the line.
His answering chuckle makes me smile harder before the art lover wannabe sidles up and latches onto him like poison ivy.
“Vincent, you said you’d help me pick out a good souvenir for Mummy.”
I pull myself back from the brink of flirtation and open staring when I realize they truly are together—and, unbelievably, I’d forgotten that fact—and make an ass of myself when a postcard rack behind me gives way and I’m dumped to the floor in an inglorious heap of flailing arms and flying cards.
I am possibly the biggest klutz on earth, and now I’ve managed to make a tool of myself in front of the first man to ring my bell. Great.
“Good gracious! I can see your pants.”
As I’m not wearing pants and am in fact clothed in a really nice cherry red gypsy skirt, I know exactly what they’re all seeing, and I groan through a blush that fits my attire.
The only upside to this day?
I’ll never have to see Vincent, my new obsession, ever again.
Chapter Two
“Jesus, you should see the man candy out there, Sissy! Eric is so lucky I love him.”
I smile up at Bee, my best friend and roommate, as she comes sailing into the truly fabulous kitchen and reloads her tray. We both work for Angie’s Angels, a high end service that caters parties for the hoi polloi of New York society.
Bee waitresses while I do my thing making the plates and appetizers look like artwork. It’s nowhere near what I want from life, but it pays decently and I get to eat on the job, which means I save as much as I make.
Tonight’s shindig is a small dinner for a select group of contributors to the arts, hence Angie’s willingness to pay me top dollar if I can create actual art with the food.