Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 71911 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 360(@200wpm)___ 288(@250wpm)___ 240(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 71911 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 360(@200wpm)___ 288(@250wpm)___ 240(@300wpm)
He stared at me with his hard silence, perfectly comfortable breathing the tense air around us even though it was like a cloud of black smoke.
“I’ve never tried this place before,” I said. “It’s good?”
“I hope so.” He grabbed the wine list. “Would you like to share a bottle of wine?”
“I’m not really in a wine mood tonight.” Wine was calm and relaxing, heightening the experience of the food you consumed. But every muscle in my body was so tense, they were all about to lock up.
“Scotch it is.” He got the attention of a waitress the second he looked across the room. When she came over, he immediately ordered two glasses of scotch on the rocks, and she disappeared. A moment later, she returned and placed the drinks in front of us. “Never met a woman who likes scotch.”
“I only drink it occasionally.” After Bolton and I had a huge fight. On the nights when I felt so alone it seemed like I was the only person in the whole world. Right before bed when I wanted to make sure I wouldn’t remember my dreams.
“People drink scotch for a reason,” he said. “And I think I know what your reason is.”
I deflected the observation by taking a drink and letting the liquor hit my tongue. It was smooth on the way down but then burned when it reached the bottom. It was like liquid fire, but I’d felt that kick enough times not to react to it. “You don’t seem like the kind of man interested in art.”
“The blood of a dictator pumps in my veins, and my heart was born in the birthplace of the Renaissance. I don’t possess an ounce of artistic ability, but that doesn’t mean I don’t have a deep reverence for it.”
Floored by what he said, I repeated his words in my mind just so I could hear it again.
“You must appreciate art if you work in a gallery. You don’t need the money.”
“What makes you say that?”
“The car you drive.”
It was a Porsche SUV, one of the high-end models. The downpour hadn’t hidden the details from him.
“The clothes and jewelry you wear,” he said. “The way you carry yourself. It’s all there.”
My fingers rested on the top of my glass, but I didn’t take a drink, knowing if I drank it too fast on an empty stomach, I would get smashed and make an idiot out of myself in front of the sexiest man who ever lived.
“Answer the question.” He never asked for what he wanted, just demanded it in a gentle manner.
“I appreciate art. And I’ve always wanted to be an artist myself.”
“Then be an artist,” he said simply.
“It’s more complicated than that.”
“I disagree,” he said. “It’s either something you are or you aren’t. So, which is it?”
“I paint sometimes, but…”
He gave me a moment to finish, and when I didn’t, he pressed me. “But what?”
“It’s just not good enough.” My own inadequacy stared me right in the face every time I looked at the canvas. When I set out to create something, it turned into something completely different…and not in a good way.
“Says who?” He grabbed his glass and took a drink. “Art is subjective. Those paintings I bought. How long did they sit in your basement before I came along?”
“I-I don’t know.” They had all come at different times, sold to us by different dealers, sometimes donated as part of an estate. “A couple years, I guess.”
“Every piece of art is meant for a different buyer. You just have to find yours.” He took another drink.
I noticed the waitress never came to take our order. She attended the tables around us but didn’t disturb us, like she was waiting for him to specifically call her over. “You haven’t seen my artwork—”
“Then show me.”
The only person I showed my work to was Bolton, and he didn’t seem that interested in it. He wasn’t the kind of man who cared about art or décor or design. He just cared about money, so I tried not to take his lack of interest personally. “It doesn’t look anything like the paintings you bought.”
“Then what do they look like?”
“Hard to describe,” I said. “I guess they’re moments…”
He cocked his head slightly.
“Like when you take a candid photo of someone or see a group of friends talking across the bar or when you see a couple talking intensely at a restaurant, and you wonder what all those moments mean. Are they good moments? Are they bad moments? Or are they the last moment those two will ever share?”
He didn’t blink as he listened to me.
“It’s hard to explain.”
“You explained it perfectly. I’d love to see one of your paintings if you’re ever brave enough to show me.”
Heat moved down my throat and mimicked the scotch I’d stopped drinking. My eyes moved to the menu even though I didn’t have much of an appetite. There were a lot of good things on there, though. “What do you get?”