CHAPTER 9

Am I actually hiding in the bathroom stall?

Yes, I am.

Daniel won't come looking for me, right? I breathe through the nausea. This sickening feeling isn't because I don't want to paint for this aristocratic-looking man whose face I can't get out of my mind. It's the fact that I do.

He wants something that can only be created out of my insane mind, and fuck if that doesn't intrigue me. My phone lights up in my hand.

Daniel: Get out of that bathroom and come into my office. I think you should do this. And why does he have your sketchbook? He knows you're the artist. Did you tell him?

Fuck. It's no use ignoring Daniel's text. I've already read it.

Me: I can't paint for someone just because they asked.

Daniel: Come out here, and just talk to him. He's interested in your work. If not for you, then do it for the gallery. Think about how many more visitors we'd attract and what that would mean for all of us here.

I'm not surprised that Daniel has used my entire support system against me in this way because he's absolutely right. I would've been dead ten times already if it weren't for the people who work at the gallery. The least I can do is do a couple of paintings for this guy. What harm could it do?

Well. I could have a list for you the length of my arm in thirty seconds. Starting with how I'm incapable of this kind of commitment to work. Also, I don't know where the switch in my brain is to turn my creativity on and off.

I can't let this investment banker, looking for things in a place that doesn't exist, see how unstable I can get.

I exit the bathroom, grateful that my mood has stabilized enough this past week for me to attend this meeting without looking like a junkie or an energizer bunny. I'm still skittish, but it's the normal-looking kind. I'm neither low nor high. I'm just a regular person with anxiety issues. My brain is surprisingly quiet – no non-stop whole-ass conversations happening inside my head right now.

Daniel catches my attention through the glass panel door and waves me in. Wiping my palms on the side of my pants, I enter the office and take a seat next to Hayden Ashford.

To my relief and crushing disappointment, he doesn't look at me. My sketch book lies provocatively on his lap. It doesn't even take a fraction of a second to conjure up an image of me straddling Hayden Ashford's lap. I have to turn my face away because, fuck, the thought is hot. Someone remind me again why I'm celibate?

"Levi, I just confirmed with Mr. Ashford that you're the artist who painted A Place Not Found. And, as you know, Mr. Ashford is very interested in the kind of art you're able to produce. He's asked to work with you on a series of paintings that share the theme of the painting he recently purchased from us."

I give Daniel a dirty look. And why is he talking all posh like that? Mr. Ashford is just a person. With a hot ass.

Mr. Ashford finally looks at me. I manage to hold his gaze for about point two seconds and even with that fraction of time, I can't escape the intensity of his gaze. Why is he looking at me like that? I don't like how interested he looks. Giving myself a much-needed mental shake, I turn my attention to Daniel. Of course he's interested. That's the whole point of this meeting. He's interested in my art. Yet, no matter how much I try to shove it out of my mind, I can't stop the thought that he's interested in my insanity.

Daniel asks me in ten different ways to please consider this request.

"Can I have a few days to consider it?" I croak. I hate disappointing Daniel like this, but I'm so afraid of this man sitting next to me, who's asking for my madness, and equally afraid of the mad urge to bury my face inside Hayden Ashford's armpit and fucking lick him.

I half expect him to reach out and give me a handshake and a smile and tell me he hopes I say yes. Instead, he gives Daniel a curt nod.

Daniel gives me a nervous smile. "Alright, Levi. Let's get an answer to Mr. Ashford within the next twenty-four hours. As I mentioned, I think it's an excellent idea. I'll work with Mr. Ashford and his assistant to make sure everything goes smoothly. And I'll rearrange your work schedule to accommodate for the time you'll need to paint. You'll have nothing more to worry about other than painting."

"Okay." I don't know what else to say.

"Mr. Ashford. I know you wouldn't have made this request if you didn't already have confidence in Levi's skill and talent. If Levi agrees, I'll oversee the process and offer curatorial insight when needed, but I think Levi will be able to manage the process quite easily."

No, I won't, because I would have no idea where to even start. But, if I were to admit it, I would say I like the idea of this man, whose mouth and eyes and hands suddenly call to me like sirens, thinking I'm some sort of artistic genius.

"Thank you, Mr. Shepherd. I appreciate that. I'll expect an answer within twenty-four hours." He gets up to leave.

I remain seated, thinking about how posh he sounds. So upper class. Like some of that posh English accent had rubbed off on him and he never quite lost it when he came back to the States.

My sketch book appears under my nose. I look up. Fuck me. I love his eyes. So soft and lovely. Brown, like mine, but maybe I'll find something there if I were to melt into them.

"I'll hear from you soon, then, Mr. Anderson," he says in his upper-class tone. It makes me think about what he would sound like in bed. Would his voice turn to gravel, and would his all-American accent come out stronger than this perfect English he's using now?

Jesus Christ. I need to get out of here.

I take my sketch book from him and rise to my feet. Our chairs had been positioned close to each other, so, when I stand, our bodies are inches apart. I can smell his expensive cologne. He has two brown spots at the corner of his bottom lip. His brown hair is brushed neatly, but, for a mega-rich aristocrat who owns all the banks in the world, it's a little overgrown. He should have neatly clipped hair, styled with expensive product. But who am I to judge when my hair is caught up in a barely restrained bun at the top of my head at any given time.

I give him the same sharp nod he gave Daniel, and then beg Daniel with my eyes to be excused.