Read Online From the Inside Out: The Compilation (Scorned, Jealousy, Dylan, Austin) by S. L. Scott - Free Book Online
Authors: S. L. Scott
Tags: Contemporary
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heels against the polished floors exposes everyone in the room to my mood. I yell for the evening manager to lock up, then quickly escape out back, slipping into the waiting van. I have a short ten minute ride to pull my shit back together before this delivery, before my date with Austin begins.
THE ELEVATOR DEPOSITS us right into Austin’s apartment—the penthouse.
He isn’t there when the shiny silver doors open in front of us, but then he is, rounding a corner with a gorgeous smile and warm greetings, welcoming and surprisingly, bare foot. So casually dressed and so sexy. He kisses me on the cheek as his hands hold my shoulders, professional, yet I feel the tingling of something more developing.
I wonder if he does.
I have staff with me, so I must behave. He winks at me before greeting them. I stand and wait for instructions. He’s the client. He should make the decisions.
“How about setting it over there against that wall? I haven’t quite decided and would like to get Ms. Weston’s professional opinion on how to best highlight the painting.”
After setting the painting down, the interns look to me, so I thank them before walking them to the elevator with a reminder to drive safe and that we have an employee meeting on Monday morning. They leave and we’re alone. Austin’s turned on some music, classic rock. Another pleasant discovery about this charming man.
“Wine? Or …” He jogs into the kitchen and comes back out just as quickly to show me. “I found this great Gossett champagne. My wine guy pulled it from the reserves for me.”
He has a wine guy. I’m impressed. His excitement is contagious and I smile, relaxing. “The champagne. We should celebrate.”
“We can drink to the Rusque finding a home.” On a mission to open the bottle, he goes back into the kitchen. “Make yourself at home, Jules.” His voice travels from the confines of the other room.
I study his décor—clean, neutral palette, highlighting the artwork. I like that. I used to be more eclectic, warmer in my taste… back when I was with Dylan. I had a much more carefree style. Over the years, I’ve learned that clutter is confining and never replaced any of the knick knacks he took the day he left me.
Looking at the walls, a large painting hangs above the couch. It seems to be the one piece I didn’t sell him.
Handing me a glass of champagne, he says, “I picked that up in Europe four years ago. It caught my eye and I had to have it. Do you like it?”
“It’s lovely,” I reply, studying the bright colors up top that fade to a gradient mix with the muted base tones. “It’s a great find. I’ve not seen anything like that here. It’s unique in its composition.”
“That’s exactly how I felt when I saw it, but could never put it into words so perfectly.” Tapping the fluted crystal against mine, he toasts, “To new friends and amazing art.”
“To amazing friends and new art,” I add, the crystal chiming between us.
We sip, then he says, “Let me show you around and you can help me find a place to hang the new one.”
Most of the paintings he’s purchased from me hang gallery style down the long and wide hallway. He says, “I had it designed this way to showcase the paintings.”
“It’s an art lovers’ dream. Have you had your place photographed professionally?”
“Once, last year,” he looks down, seeming self-conscious. “It was silly really, a local publication.”
We stop in his bedroom and I see the Cirie I sold him three years ago on Valentine’s Day. “That’s more powerful than I remember,” I note, staring at it hanging above his headboard.
He stands there, analytical, before saying, “The deep burgundy blending into the more subtle red, but stopping before it turns pink. I can feel the passion behind it. Cirie knew when to stop. It’s not feminine—”
“Or masculine,” I say, interrupting, “just beautiful.”
I hear him whisper behind me, “Yes, so
THE ELEVATOR DEPOSITS us right into Austin’s apartment—the penthouse.
He isn’t there when the shiny silver doors open in front of us, but then he is, rounding a corner with a gorgeous smile and warm greetings, welcoming and surprisingly, bare foot. So casually dressed and so sexy. He kisses me on the cheek as his hands hold my shoulders, professional, yet I feel the tingling of something more developing.
I wonder if he does.
I have staff with me, so I must behave. He winks at me before greeting them. I stand and wait for instructions. He’s the client. He should make the decisions.
“How about setting it over there against that wall? I haven’t quite decided and would like to get Ms. Weston’s professional opinion on how to best highlight the painting.”
After setting the painting down, the interns look to me, so I thank them before walking them to the elevator with a reminder to drive safe and that we have an employee meeting on Monday morning. They leave and we’re alone. Austin’s turned on some music, classic rock. Another pleasant discovery about this charming man.
“Wine? Or …” He jogs into the kitchen and comes back out just as quickly to show me. “I found this great Gossett champagne. My wine guy pulled it from the reserves for me.”
He has a wine guy. I’m impressed. His excitement is contagious and I smile, relaxing. “The champagne. We should celebrate.”
“We can drink to the Rusque finding a home.” On a mission to open the bottle, he goes back into the kitchen. “Make yourself at home, Jules.” His voice travels from the confines of the other room.
I study his décor—clean, neutral palette, highlighting the artwork. I like that. I used to be more eclectic, warmer in my taste… back when I was with Dylan. I had a much more carefree style. Over the years, I’ve learned that clutter is confining and never replaced any of the knick knacks he took the day he left me.
Looking at the walls, a large painting hangs above the couch. It seems to be the one piece I didn’t sell him.
Handing me a glass of champagne, he says, “I picked that up in Europe four years ago. It caught my eye and I had to have it. Do you like it?”
“It’s lovely,” I reply, studying the bright colors up top that fade to a gradient mix with the muted base tones. “It’s a great find. I’ve not seen anything like that here. It’s unique in its composition.”
“That’s exactly how I felt when I saw it, but could never put it into words so perfectly.” Tapping the fluted crystal against mine, he toasts, “To new friends and amazing art.”
“To amazing friends and new art,” I add, the crystal chiming between us.
We sip, then he says, “Let me show you around and you can help me find a place to hang the new one.”
Most of the paintings he’s purchased from me hang gallery style down the long and wide hallway. He says, “I had it designed this way to showcase the paintings.”
“It’s an art lovers’ dream. Have you had your place photographed professionally?”
“Once, last year,” he looks down, seeming self-conscious. “It was silly really, a local publication.”
We stop in his bedroom and I see the Cirie I sold him three years ago on Valentine’s Day. “That’s more powerful than I remember,” I note, staring at it hanging above his headboard.
He stands there, analytical, before saying, “The deep burgundy blending into the more subtle red, but stopping before it turns pink. I can feel the passion behind it. Cirie knew when to stop. It’s not feminine—”
“Or masculine,” I say, interrupting, “just beautiful.”
I hear him whisper behind me, “Yes, so
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