Read Online Italian Kisses: A Billionaire Love Story by Lucy Lambert - Free Book Online
Authors: Lucy Lambert
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and gotten no farther than typing his name out. It was supposed to be a paper exploring Romano's tutelage under Raphael. Similarities and differences between the styles of student and teacher.
Yet, I couldn't bring myself to type another word. I'd rather write something about the perfect symmetry of Liam's face. I'd focus on his eyes first, I thought. That light, baby blue shade that deepened the more you looked into them. As though you could fall into their fathomless depths.
It was kind of funny, actually. I'd been putting this paper off again and again, giving myself a new excuse every time I looked at the assignment sheet and the ever-approaching due date.
I'll get to it tomorrow. There's still a month left. There's still two weeks left. There's still a whole business week left. You know that sort of thing.
And the closer that deadline crept, the heavier the rock in the pit of my stomach became. And since the only way to relieve the pressure of that weight was to give into temptation to put writing the paper off again, I did it more and more easily each time.
Since I'd wanted to leave Rome and the program anyway, that made it even easier. Except now I didn't want to leave.
Now, I wanted to stay. Ever since I'd met Liam, I wanted to stay. And staying meant writing that damned paper.
Somehow, deciding I needed to write it resulted in my sitting to write it and instead commencing to daydream.
That had to stop.
Leaning my elbows against my desk, I cupped my chin with my hands and put myself through a little artist's meditation I'd learned back in a sophomore art class in high school.
Art, paintings, sculptures, frescoes, and the like, my teacher, Mr. Drayton had told us, weren't just visual. An artist needed to be in touch with all their senses if they truly wished to tap into their creative spirit.
This, of course, was back in my more idealistic days when I thought I could be an artist myself, rather than a studier of artists. But I'd always found the exercise helpful.
So I closed my eyes. Immediately, I saw Liam projected onto my mind's eye. I concentrated harder.
Follow your senses, all of them, not just sight , I heard Mr. Drayton's voice as I dredged it from my memory, let them pull you into the present. Life happens in the present. There is no past. No future. Only here and now. Art happens in the here and now. Be there.
So I opened my other senses to the world. The rich smell of the small bakery I lived above wafted through the air, the smell of the dough so pungent now that I paid attention to it that I could almost taste it.
There was something so very comforting in the smell of baking bread.
That made me smile. An old lady called Mrs. Rosselini owned and operated it. It had been handed down father to son for the last 150 years. But Mrs. Rosselini's father had only the one daughter, and she did her best to keep the family business going.
She also offered me a fresh roll every morning, banging on the door and greeting me with a smile each time.
I always tried to be polite, thanking her as she clicked her tongue at me, fussing and telling me I was too thin.
I always ate the roll, but now that I thought about it, I never really tasted it. That, I resolved to change.
What next? Touch. I let my hands fall to my keyboard, slid them down the smooth plastic keys, feeling the little humps over the F and J. Soon they touched the desk. It was an old wooden thing that creaked alarmingly if you dared lean against it. The varnish was rough and worn. But the wood itself was warm, alive.
One of the drawers was missing the little brass knob so that I couldn't pull it out. And someone had long ago shoved an old Italian coin beneath one of the feet to keep the whole thing from rattling.
It took no effort at all to remember the warmth of Liam's bare skin against mine. The heat of it.
A shiver running up my back made me suck a sharp breath in through my teeth.
Next, I concentrated on what I could hear. There were
Yet, I couldn't bring myself to type another word. I'd rather write something about the perfect symmetry of Liam's face. I'd focus on his eyes first, I thought. That light, baby blue shade that deepened the more you looked into them. As though you could fall into their fathomless depths.
It was kind of funny, actually. I'd been putting this paper off again and again, giving myself a new excuse every time I looked at the assignment sheet and the ever-approaching due date.
I'll get to it tomorrow. There's still a month left. There's still two weeks left. There's still a whole business week left. You know that sort of thing.
And the closer that deadline crept, the heavier the rock in the pit of my stomach became. And since the only way to relieve the pressure of that weight was to give into temptation to put writing the paper off again, I did it more and more easily each time.
Since I'd wanted to leave Rome and the program anyway, that made it even easier. Except now I didn't want to leave.
Now, I wanted to stay. Ever since I'd met Liam, I wanted to stay. And staying meant writing that damned paper.
Somehow, deciding I needed to write it resulted in my sitting to write it and instead commencing to daydream.
That had to stop.
Leaning my elbows against my desk, I cupped my chin with my hands and put myself through a little artist's meditation I'd learned back in a sophomore art class in high school.
Art, paintings, sculptures, frescoes, and the like, my teacher, Mr. Drayton had told us, weren't just visual. An artist needed to be in touch with all their senses if they truly wished to tap into their creative spirit.
This, of course, was back in my more idealistic days when I thought I could be an artist myself, rather than a studier of artists. But I'd always found the exercise helpful.
So I closed my eyes. Immediately, I saw Liam projected onto my mind's eye. I concentrated harder.
Follow your senses, all of them, not just sight , I heard Mr. Drayton's voice as I dredged it from my memory, let them pull you into the present. Life happens in the present. There is no past. No future. Only here and now. Art happens in the here and now. Be there.
So I opened my other senses to the world. The rich smell of the small bakery I lived above wafted through the air, the smell of the dough so pungent now that I paid attention to it that I could almost taste it.
There was something so very comforting in the smell of baking bread.
That made me smile. An old lady called Mrs. Rosselini owned and operated it. It had been handed down father to son for the last 150 years. But Mrs. Rosselini's father had only the one daughter, and she did her best to keep the family business going.
She also offered me a fresh roll every morning, banging on the door and greeting me with a smile each time.
I always tried to be polite, thanking her as she clicked her tongue at me, fussing and telling me I was too thin.
I always ate the roll, but now that I thought about it, I never really tasted it. That, I resolved to change.
What next? Touch. I let my hands fall to my keyboard, slid them down the smooth plastic keys, feeling the little humps over the F and J. Soon they touched the desk. It was an old wooden thing that creaked alarmingly if you dared lean against it. The varnish was rough and worn. But the wood itself was warm, alive.
One of the drawers was missing the little brass knob so that I couldn't pull it out. And someone had long ago shoved an old Italian coin beneath one of the feet to keep the whole thing from rattling.
It took no effort at all to remember the warmth of Liam's bare skin against mine. The heat of it.
A shiver running up my back made me suck a sharp breath in through my teeth.
Next, I concentrated on what I could hear. There were
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