about. If she didn’t, she’d be ruined.
No pressure there.
A colorful mandala-covered mug caught her eye, and she plucked it off the shelf to give it a closer study. The mandala itself was done in rainbow hues and melting to a center point at the bottom, reminding her of crayon wax art. It was beautiful, but if she had been in charge of how the design had been placed on the mug, she would have had it so the dripping colors flowed into the handle itself…
Inspiration struck hard. A nanosecond later she cursed a blue streak under her breath. She’d been in such a hurry to escape her brother that she’d left her sketchbook up in his booth. With a frustrated sigh, she headed for the cashier, mug in hand. This was Twist’s fault, she decided on a irritated huff. If he hadn’t been preaching so incessantly on the virtues of not talking to strange men, she wouldn’t have needed to make a bid for freedom. Now she was stuck waiting around for heaven knew how long before she could get her book back.
Fabulous.
Leaving the gift shop behind, Essie headed toward the reception area at the front of the building. While most of her time had been spent upstairs in either Payne’s office or her brother’s booth, it was the entirety of the downstairs floor she liked best. Tinted floor-to-ceiling windows in the reception area looked out onto the never-ending traffic of The Loop. The black marble floor gleamed like a skating rink under the bright white lights overhead, and beyond the reception area was a sophisticated art gallery, where the House’s more famous pieces were displayed on stark white modular walls.
At House Of Payne, art reigned supreme.
“Hey, Scout.” Essie smiled at the woman behind the state-of-the-art reception desk. “I’ve got a question for you.”
“I hope I’ve got an answer.” Scout looked up from her tablet and returned her smile. “What’s up?”
“See this gorgeous thing?” Essie handed the mug over to the other woman. “Do you happen to know who the artist is who made it?”
“I think that’s Max’s work… aha, yep.” She turned the mug over, then showed the name to Essie. “He usually specializes in retro tats—you know, giving it that forties and fifties look down to the last detail. But every now and again, he goes Salvador Dali on us and melts whatever he’s working on. It’s weird, but cool.”
“I love the melty part, but I was kind of hoping I could manipulate the way it looks… ugh,” Essie interrupted herself and gave a tiny stomp of her foot. “It’s too hard to explain without my sketchbook, which I left upstairs in Twist’s booth. I don’t suppose my brother’s going to be done with his client any time soon, is he?”
“Let’s see.” Scout set the mug on the desk and let her fingers fly over a keyboard embedded in the console, her eyes on a large monitor. “Nope, sorry. Twist is going to be socked in there for another three hours or so.”
Naturally . “Well, that might give me some time to chat with this Maximo dude. I don’t suppose he’s available during the next three hours, is he?”
“No, and I strongly advise making an appointment, if you’re sure you absolutely have to talk to Maximo,” came the quelling reply. “He’s got a couple of nicknames around here—The Mad Russian, and Mad Max. See the common thread going on there?”
“Mm-hm.” Essie plucked the mug back up and contemplated the melting mandala. It was simply too cool to not use. “Just how mad is he?”
“In all honesty, I find your brother to be way more of a handful than Max. But he is like the rest of you weirdo artists—very hard to predict.”
“I’m not a weirdo. In fact, I’m the most normal fashion designer I’ve ever met.”
“That’s not saying much, but at least you don’t refer to yourself in the third person,” Scout added fairly when Essie opened her mouth to protest. “Maybe you’ll see what I mean when you talk to Max… that is, if you
No pressure there.
A colorful mandala-covered mug caught her eye, and she plucked it off the shelf to give it a closer study. The mandala itself was done in rainbow hues and melting to a center point at the bottom, reminding her of crayon wax art. It was beautiful, but if she had been in charge of how the design had been placed on the mug, she would have had it so the dripping colors flowed into the handle itself…
Inspiration struck hard. A nanosecond later she cursed a blue streak under her breath. She’d been in such a hurry to escape her brother that she’d left her sketchbook up in his booth. With a frustrated sigh, she headed for the cashier, mug in hand. This was Twist’s fault, she decided on a irritated huff. If he hadn’t been preaching so incessantly on the virtues of not talking to strange men, she wouldn’t have needed to make a bid for freedom. Now she was stuck waiting around for heaven knew how long before she could get her book back.
Fabulous.
Leaving the gift shop behind, Essie headed toward the reception area at the front of the building. While most of her time had been spent upstairs in either Payne’s office or her brother’s booth, it was the entirety of the downstairs floor she liked best. Tinted floor-to-ceiling windows in the reception area looked out onto the never-ending traffic of The Loop. The black marble floor gleamed like a skating rink under the bright white lights overhead, and beyond the reception area was a sophisticated art gallery, where the House’s more famous pieces were displayed on stark white modular walls.
At House Of Payne, art reigned supreme.
“Hey, Scout.” Essie smiled at the woman behind the state-of-the-art reception desk. “I’ve got a question for you.”
“I hope I’ve got an answer.” Scout looked up from her tablet and returned her smile. “What’s up?”
“See this gorgeous thing?” Essie handed the mug over to the other woman. “Do you happen to know who the artist is who made it?”
“I think that’s Max’s work… aha, yep.” She turned the mug over, then showed the name to Essie. “He usually specializes in retro tats—you know, giving it that forties and fifties look down to the last detail. But every now and again, he goes Salvador Dali on us and melts whatever he’s working on. It’s weird, but cool.”
“I love the melty part, but I was kind of hoping I could manipulate the way it looks… ugh,” Essie interrupted herself and gave a tiny stomp of her foot. “It’s too hard to explain without my sketchbook, which I left upstairs in Twist’s booth. I don’t suppose my brother’s going to be done with his client any time soon, is he?”
“Let’s see.” Scout set the mug on the desk and let her fingers fly over a keyboard embedded in the console, her eyes on a large monitor. “Nope, sorry. Twist is going to be socked in there for another three hours or so.”
Naturally . “Well, that might give me some time to chat with this Maximo dude. I don’t suppose he’s available during the next three hours, is he?”
“No, and I strongly advise making an appointment, if you’re sure you absolutely have to talk to Maximo,” came the quelling reply. “He’s got a couple of nicknames around here—The Mad Russian, and Mad Max. See the common thread going on there?”
“Mm-hm.” Essie plucked the mug back up and contemplated the melting mandala. It was simply too cool to not use. “Just how mad is he?”
“In all honesty, I find your brother to be way more of a handful than Max. But he is like the rest of you weirdo artists—very hard to predict.”
“I’m not a weirdo. In fact, I’m the most normal fashion designer I’ve ever met.”
“That’s not saying much, but at least you don’t refer to yourself in the third person,” Scout added fairly when Essie opened her mouth to protest. “Maybe you’ll see what I mean when you talk to Max… that is, if you
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