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Michael blinked, and a second later he was groaning in frustration, rubbing his face with his palm. “For fucks sake, Adrian, it wasn’t just a dance, was it?”
Chapter 11
Ava
The crescendo of a song I’d never heard before played so loudly from my speakers that I could almost feel it vibrating the walls of my apartment. My playlist had ended nearly an hour ago, and I hadn’t cared enough to pull myself away from the canvas and change it.
This, the paints, the feel of a brush against the stretched linen—it was the only thing keeping my mind off Adrian. The longer I could put off the intrusive thoughts, the more I could convince myself that what we’d done hadn’t absolutely ruined me or sent me back years into my silly teenage crush.
The face that had taken shape in front of me wasn’t one I completely recognized. She had elements of myself—the freckles mostly and the green of her eyes. But the shape of her jaw, the sharpness of her brow line, the darkness, and the little specks of white I’d added to highlight the blacker areas of her hair, looked far too close to Adrian for comfort.
It bothered me more than I cared to admit.
She wasn’t done, but the longer I stared at it, the more I realized that I needed her to be finished. I dipped my purposely dedicated brush into the jar of paint thinner and gently pressed afingertip against her cheek before checking it.Perfect. Still semi-wet.
I didn’t even take the time I normally would to get the perfect stroke.
Dragging the thinner, soaked brush across the center of the canvas, I streaked the paint, pulling it at odd angles and distorting her. I pulled the brush right through the center of her face, paint smeared as if I’d taken a hand across a freshly lipsticked mouth, and she was something new and something old all the same.
But there was still too much of both of us in it.
I dipped the brush again.
Beep. Beep.
The sound of an incoming text through my speakers nearly made me knock the entire jar of thinner onto the old hardwood floor, and for a second, I could have sworn my life flashed before my eyes at the idea of how my father would react to me ruining the original flooring in the townhouse he’d bought for me.
I shuddered at the thought.
Beep. Beep.
Fucks sake.
Grunting and sore from holding my position for the last three hours, I pushed myself off my chair and hobbled over to the kitchen counter to check my phone.
I was almost grateful I hadn’t had it next to the paint thinner. The text that awaited me absolutely would have sent the thinner flying.
Unknown Number: Hey. Hope you don’t mind me reaching out on your real number this time.
Unknown Number: I answered all of your assistant’s questions. You haven’t gotten back to me about whether you’re taking me as a client.
I stared at the phone for far too long before wiping my paint-covered hands on my apron and picking it up. There was no one else that could possibly be—no one else I’d given a fake number to that had my real one now. Dad must have given it to him.
Me: That’s because I’m not.
Unknown Number: Come on, Ava.
Just as I was two letters into a reply, another message came through.
Unknown Number: Can we schedule a meeting to go over potential matches?
I gulped.
Me: Find someone else.
The message sat there for a moment undisturbed before the little bubble with three dots danced across the bottom of the screen.
Unknown Number: I’d rather not.
