Taking the Plunge Page 11

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” she asked.

  He smiled. “You know what it means, Nancy. We’re artists. We would rather spend our time in a room, painting the walls than anything else. I suspect we would spend all day in my office, learning from one another. I would love to do that.”

  “There’s nothing you can learn from me.”

  “I already have.”

  “I’m not the professional—you are.”

  “There’s no such thing as a professional artist. There’s nothing professional about it. We’re erratic, passionate, emotional, illogical. You couldn’t find a worse word to describe us. A good artist manipulates your emotions. And when I first saw your painting, I felt the tears deep behind my eyes. It was that moment when I picked you as a winner.”

  She pushed her plate away, no longer hungry. His words made her happy even though she wished they didn’t. The connection between them was strong, undeniable. She could communicate with him without the use of words, just her eyes and her paintings. It was a sensation she never felt before. “Did you know I drew that painting when I saw you at the party?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why didn’t you say something?”

  He shrugged. “I like to surprise people. When I saw you on the beach, I knew I had to talk to you. Unfortunately, it was obvious that the timing was wrong. I could see the despair in your eyes, like a part of you died. Then when I got your painting I looked at the name of entry. I wondered if it was you. Then when you told me your last name, I had my answer. Everything made sense. I understood why I was drawn to you, connected to you.”

  “Why?”

  “When you know, you know, Nancy.”

  “When you know what?”

  He leaned forward, resting his hand on the table. “What happened that night I first saw you? Why were you so upset?”

  She leaned back, pulling away from him. “Derek—upset me.”

  “What did he do?”

  She shook her head, remembering the day like it just happened. “He was flirting with these girls, they were throwing themselves at him, he signed their tits, licked salt off their chests, ignored my phone call…” Her voice trailed off as the depression sank in.

  “He sounds like a good guy,” he said sarcastically.

  “I don’t want to talk about this.”

  He raised his hands. “Sorry.”

  “How old are you?”

  “How old do I look?”

  “Young. My age.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Twenty-two.”

  “I’m twenty-five.”

  “You’re so young,” she said.

  “I get that a lot.”

  “It’s just so amazing. How did you become so famous, so renowned?”

  “I never gave up on my dreams. I never settled.”

  She crossed her arms over her chest, blocking him off.

  “So, you’ll take the job?”

  She wanted that job more than anything. It paid three times more an hour than her custodian job. Plus, it was her passion. She got to work with art every day, learn from a reputable artist, and get a job she was actually excited for. She was just scared of Thatcher. He was already under her skin, knowing all her secrets and understanding everything about her. She could hide from everyone else but she couldn’t hide from him. “Yes.”

  He smiled triumphantly. “We’ll begin tomorrow.”

  13

  “He offered you a job?” Sydney asked.

  “Yeah,” Nancy said, smiling.

  “That’s so awesome. No more penguin poop for you.”

  She laughed. “I’ll miss those guys.”

  “How much does it pay?”

  “Twenty five an hour.”

  “Damn,” Sydney said. “That’s even better. And Mr. Adams is really hot. How old is he?”

  “Ah-hem,” Coen said.

  Sydney rolled her eyes. “I still love you.”

  Coen glared at her. “It doesn’t hurt to say it once in a while.”

  “I say it every day,” Sydney said as she kissed him.

  He smiled. “That’s better.”

  Sydney turned back to Nancy. “How old is he?”

  “Twenty-five.”

  “Wow. And he’s already so successful.”

  Nancy nodded. “It’s unbelievable. He’s a genius.”

  “That’s so cool,” Sydney said. “I’m happy for you.”

  “Thank you. I am too.”

  Derek joined their table, holding two trays of food. “Is pizza okay?”

  “Yeah,” she said with a smile.

  He sat beside her then kissed her on the cheek. “I missed you last night.”

  She felt the guilt rise in her throat. She spent most of the day with Thatcher. “I missed you too.”

  “Can I see you today?” Derek asked.

  “Well, I have to work,” Nancy said.

  “On a Monday?” Derek asked. “You never work at the aquarium on Mondays.”

  “She got a new job,” Sydney said.

  Derek raised an eyebrow. “What job?”

  “Thatcher—Mr. Adams—hired me as his secretary,” Nancy explained,

  “Cool,” Derek said. “That’s perfect for you.”

  “I’m excited about it.”

  He kissed her on the cheek again. “Congratulations.”

  “Thank you,” Nancy said.

  She ate her lunch with her friends, Thatcher always hanging in the back of her mind. She was supposed to see him today after school and the knowledge made her heart race in her chest. He made her nervous and excited at the same time.

  “How often do you work?” Derek asked.

  “Huh?”

  “Did you hear me?” he asked.

  “Sorry what?” Nancy said.

  “Do you work every day?”

  “It’s Monday through Friday.”

  “Dang,” he said. “We’ll have to get together after work and on the weekends from now on.”

  “Yeah.”

  She finished her lunch then went to her microbiology class, more uninterested than she’d ever been. She couldn’t believe she stuck with this major so long. Thatcher’s words kept creeping to the back of her mind, telling her she should just drop out. That she didn’t belong there.

  When she went to her art class, her classmates congratulated her on her accomplishment. She smiled, feeling her cheeks blush, as she received their praise. When she went home after school, her dad still wasn’t home. He hadn’t come home all weekend and he was still missing. He didn’t even call. She grabbed the paintings from her closet and brought them to Thatcher’s house.

  “Hello,” Diane said. “So you’re my replacement?”

  “Yep,” Nancy said.

  “You’ll love working here. I wish I didn’t have to leave Mr. Adams. He’s a wonderful boss and man.”

  “I can tell.”

  “And my kids love him too.”

  “They do?”

  She pointed to a frame on the wall. It was a picture of two young boys, both wearing baseball uniforms. “He did a wonderful job.”

  “It’s beautiful,” Nancy said.

  “He’s very talented.”

  “I know he is.”

  “He wanted me to tell you to meet him in his office.”

  “He did?” Nancy asked.

  “Yes. He seems very fond of you.”

  Her heart hammered in her chest as she walked through the hallway until she reached the back of the stairs. She took the steps until she reached the second landing. When she stepped into his living room, she didn’t see him anywhere. She walked to his office and saw the door open. He was sitting on the floor, staring at a painting he had on an easel.

  “Hey,” she said as she knocked on the door.

  He stood up and walked to her. He was wearing a shirt with cut off sleeves, revealing the muscles and veins of his arms, and jeans that had paint stains everywhere. Even in casual clothes, he looked hands
ome. “How are you?”

  “Good. You?”

  “I’m better now.”

  “What are you doing?”

  “Working.”

  She smiled. “It looked like you were being lazy.”

  “Just taking a moment of reflection.” He looked down at the paintings she held. “May I?”

  “Yes,” she said as she handed them over.

  He looked at the first one. “You were pissed when you made this one.”

  “You’re good.”

  “I love it. I’m going to keep this one too.”

  “Hey,” she said, hitting him on the arm lightly.

  “I’m your boss. I can do what I want.”

  “You can’t pull that card.”

  “Too late,” he said as he grinned at her. “Can I see the other one?”

  “Uh, I’m not sure what you’re going to think of it.”

  “I can promise you I’ll love it.” He took it then looked at it. He said nothing for a long time, seeing his face reflected back at him. She couldn’t read his expression. It was undecipherable.

  He stepped back, still holding the painting. “This is—there are no words.”

  “I—I didn’t mean to offend you.”

  “How could this offend me? It’s—beautiful.”

  “Aren’t you conceited?” she teased.

  He didn’t laugh. “I feel the same way, Nancy.”

  “What?”

  “I feel the same way. I see you the way you see me. There’s nothing separating us. I only see your soul, you emotions. You see mine.”

  She didn’t know what to say. He could read her paintings well, but she never expected him to figure that out.

  “Please let me keep this,” he whispered.

  “I need something to sell.”

  “You can’t sell this,” he said quickly. “You can paint something else.”

  She sighed. “You keep taking everything I make.”

  “You’re that good.” He picked up the paintings and leaned them against the wall where they could be seen. He stood back and stared at them, his arms crossed over his chest.

  She came beside him and stared at the paintings with him. His eyes were the same intense blue and her distant reflection could be seen in them. His chiseled jaw was sharp, an exact replica of the real one. The faint outline of hair on his chin was dark.

  He turned to her and looked her in the face. He placed his hand on his chin. “Do you like it?”

  She glanced down to his jaw, seeing the absence of hair. “It looks nice.”

  “Do you have a preference?”

  He looked sexy either way. It really didn’t matter. “No.”

  “I’ll grow a beard, then.”

  She grimaced.

  “I’m just kidding,” he said with a laugh. “I need your help with something.” He took her hand and led her back to the easel in the middle of the room. Sometimes he was so sporadic she couldn’t keep up. His mind seemed to work in overdrive at certain times of the day. He stood in front of the painting, which was only half completed. The right side of the painting was dark blue, white, and there were faint spots of yellow. It looked like a snowy hill in the middle of nowhere.

  “What can I do?”

  “Paint the other side.”

  “What?”

  “Pick up a brush and do the left side. I’ll finish the right.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “But they won’t match.”

  “That’s the point.” He grabbed a brush from the rack, dipped it in water, then handed it to her. “Please.”

  She tucked her hair behind her ear, feeling suddenly nervous.

  He gave her a smile, one that made her hair stand up on the back of her neck, then grabbed his own tools.

  She looked down at her clothes, realizing they were about to be covered in paint and stains. “Do you have an apron?”

  “No. But I have something better.” He took her hand and guided her back into the living. He walked into his room then returned with a plain t-shirt and running shorts. “They are a little big but they’ll do the trick.”

  She felt the soft fabric in her hands. She wanted to smell them but she stopped herself. “I don’t want to get them dirty.”

  “Don’t worry about it. I have so many lazy clothes since I’m a hermit and all.”

  She smiled at him then walked into the bathroom. When she was alone, she grabbed his shirt and smelled it. The faint scent of his cologne and his natural smell filtered through her nose. Just the scent made her feel the burn between her legs. Something so innocent turned into something innately sexual. When she took off her clothes and pulled on his, she felt it again, but it was a million times stronger. The fabric rubbed against her skin and covered her, surrounding her like a blanket. She felt Thatcher touch her even though he wasn’t really there. It was the closest she could come to it. The idea of rubbing one out while she was alone came into her mind, but she pushed the thoughts back, reminding herself that the behavior would be unacceptable.

  “You okay?” he said as he knocked on the door.

  “Yeah. I’m just fixing my hair,” she lied. She folded her clothes then looked around the bathroom. On the rack were tribal statues that looked exaggerated but beautiful. Candles sat on the counter and the room was spotless. It almost looked like a woman lived there. She was surprised his house was so clean since he didn’t have a maid. Most men were pigs.

  She opened the door and stepped out. He stared at her, seeing the oversized shirt stretch to her thighs. His hand immediately moved to the small of her back and left it there.

  “You look—hot in that.”

  Her heart fluttered wildly, practically jumping out of her chest. “Oh.”

  He grabbed a strand of her hair and tucked it behind her ear. “I knew you were going to do it so I beat you to the punch.”

  Nancy knew he understood she was nervous. She couldn’t hide anything from him and it was starting to annoy her. “Your bathroom is—clean.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Are they not supposed to be?”

  “No, I just meant that your house is really spotless. Do you have a maid?”

  “No,” he said with a laugh. “I take care of everything. My mom taught me well. Just because I’m a boy doesn’t mean it’s okay to be a pig.”

  That surprised her. “And it’s decorated so well.”

  He shrugged. “I’m an artist. I like having a beautiful home. Lit candles can make a humble place look like a palace. The right scent in the air can make you feel at peace. When I’m home, I’m safe. When I’m home, I’m sane.”

  “It’s beautiful.”

  “Thank you. I try.”

  She stepped away from him, getting too comfortable. When she was near him, she wanted to lean against his chest and close her eyes, feeling safe in his embrace. But she couldn’t do that. Instead, she walked away and returned to the office.

  She grabbed a brush and started to work. Thatcher came behind her and placed his hands on her hips, his chest pressed against her back, while he watched her work. His hands didn’t move under her shirt, but she still felt the heat of his skin. Her heart raced in her chest but she didn’t tell him to stop.

  “I like the way you handle the brush. Your fingers are barely grasping it. It’s fluid, seamless.”

  “Thank you,” she said.

  “I’m learning from you already.” His lips brushed against her hair, making her breathing increase. He pulled away and grabbed the remote, turning on the sound system. It was a classical song, a piano playing lightly. He grabbed his brush and came beside her. Like in a trance, he dabbed the paint, making precise marks and shapes. His colors blended together, but they were contrasted against the entire piece. His eyes changed when he worked, becoming serious and tense. His hand moved so fast she could barely catch his movements. The brush was held tightly in his fingers, and when he moved he used his entire body, whereas Nancy relied on wrist action only.

  After staring fo
r a long time, she turned back to her painting and worked on her side of the canvass. She didn’t think while she worked, splashing the paint across the virgin paper. Even though they weren’t speaking, a strong connection formed between them. Words weren’t said but they still spoke, their images and colors conveying their meaning. Hours passed and neither one said a word. When she finally put her brush down, she looked at her piece. Her side of the house was on a small hill. The flowers were bright in bloom, the sun high in the sky. A swing hung on a tree in the distance, moving slightly in the summer wind. A few birds stood in the trees, their red feathers noticeable in the green leaves.

  Thatcher dropped his brush then looked at the painting. He put his hands in his pockets while he stared, saying nothing for a long time. “It’s—amazing.”

  She felt the same way. Their styles were so different and it brought the painting to life. They had molded their souls together, combining their lives onto a single sheet of paper. The revelation made her shake. It was the most intimate act she had ever committed with another person. Her soul was laid bare, easy to see, nowhere to hide. He had done the same, showing her his most vulnerable side. Together, they made something beautiful, wordlessly.

  “Can I keep it?” he asked.

  “It’s your painting.”

  “No. It’s our painting.”

  She looked at him, seeing the intensity in his eyes. The sight was so powerful, she looked away, unable to hold his gaze.

  “I’ll put it in the living room so I can see it every day. But you’re welcome to have it when you want it.”

  “We could share.”

  “Yeah. Take it home whenever you want it. Just bring it back after a while.”

  “Like a child of divorced parents?”

  He laughed. “I guess.” He placed his arm around her waist and pulled her close. “Thank you for helping me.”

  Feeling his hand touch her made her stop breathing. “You don’t need my help,” she said as she stepped away.

  He backed off, sensing her vulnerability. “Lunch?”

  “Sure.”

  “Let’s go. I’ll whip us up some sandwiches.”

  She followed him into the kitchen and watched him prepare the meal. When she looked down at her outfit she realized she was covered in spots of paint. “I’m sorry that I ruined your clothes.”