Read Online Sculpting Grace: A Light Romance Novel (Art of Grace Book 2) by Samantha Westlake - Free Book Online
Authors: Samantha Westlake
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to go this crazy for her clients? These are things that you ought to be managing for yourself!"
"But you said-" he began, but I didn't even let him finish the sentence.
"If you want to be fully independent because of your artistic integrity, that's great," I snapped at him. "But that means that you'd better get used to doing all of... of whatever those things are on your list, all on your own! No one's going to help you with them, and that includes me. Just because you've got something I want, that doesn't make me your bitch."
Dean Benjamin de St. James, cranky and particular artist, looked back at me with wide eyes as I finished this little speech. Was he actually a little scared of me, now? It almost seemed that way! Look out, world, this was bad ass Becca, on the loose!
"I didn't mean to call you a bitch," he managed, after a swallow that I saw clearly, even through his wild beard.
Okay, Becca, I thought to myself. This can work in your favor. You've got him on the defensive - now, just let him down easily and bring him back in. Get him feeling like he owes you, and you'll have this agreement all sewn up.
"I didn't say that you did," I said, letting a little anger out of my voice, but keeping just a little edge of frustration in my words. "I just want to make it clear that I'm not here to do all your work for you."
"Okay," he said, and to my surprise, I saw his whole face droop! Oh my god, had I pushed him too far? Was this big name artist about to start crying, right in front of me?
Trying to avoid the unfortunate possible outcome of tears, knowing that I wouldn't know how to save this conversation if he started sobbing, I turned my attention hastily back to the list still in his hand. "That's, uh, quite the list there," I said, hoping to distract him.
de St. James blinked as he looked down at the pad of paper in his hand. "I guess things have gotten away from me a little bit," he managed, in what might be the understatement of the decade. I definitely heard the threat of tears in his tone, and realized that I needed to distract him, and fast, to avoid an outburst of sobs.
"But how about this?" I went on, speaking without thinking, just wanting to avoid a meltdown. "I won't tackle everything on that list, obviously, but I'll take on one or two things. Just to show you that I really do have the best intentions for you, and that you can trust me to sell your art."
The artist blinked several times, looking down at the pad of paper as he lifted up one sleeve of his filthy bathrobe to blot at his eyes. "Ten things?"
"Three," I countered firmly.
"Five?"
He was trying to bargain with me? "Nope. Three."
He sighed, but I wasn't going to budge on this, even if he threatened me with the waterworks again. "Fine. Three." He grabbed his pen and started scratching items off the list with thick slashes.
After another minute, he finished, ripped the sheet of paper off of the notepad, and handed it to me. "There. Do these things. Then, maybe, we can talk about you selling my art."
"Great," I said a little faintly, accepting the list and wondering what I'd bitten off. I tried glancing down at it, but de St. James' handwriting was a chicken scratch that was next to impossible to read - and he'd slashed so fiercely at some of the other items on the list that I had a tough time telling which items weren't yet crossed off.
"And until you finish those things," de St. James went on, apparently now back in firm control, his momentary breakdown replaced by annoyance once again, "you can leave me alone to work on my art in peace!" He advanced towards me, putting one hand on my back and propelling me towards his front door.
It didn't take much more encouragement from him to get me out of the dirty, cluttered, claustrophobic interior of his house. I stepped out through his front door, guided by the pressure of his hand on my back - and he slammed the front door shut, right on my heels.
"Great," I said again, looking down at the list
"But you said-" he began, but I didn't even let him finish the sentence.
"If you want to be fully independent because of your artistic integrity, that's great," I snapped at him. "But that means that you'd better get used to doing all of... of whatever those things are on your list, all on your own! No one's going to help you with them, and that includes me. Just because you've got something I want, that doesn't make me your bitch."
Dean Benjamin de St. James, cranky and particular artist, looked back at me with wide eyes as I finished this little speech. Was he actually a little scared of me, now? It almost seemed that way! Look out, world, this was bad ass Becca, on the loose!
"I didn't mean to call you a bitch," he managed, after a swallow that I saw clearly, even through his wild beard.
Okay, Becca, I thought to myself. This can work in your favor. You've got him on the defensive - now, just let him down easily and bring him back in. Get him feeling like he owes you, and you'll have this agreement all sewn up.
"I didn't say that you did," I said, letting a little anger out of my voice, but keeping just a little edge of frustration in my words. "I just want to make it clear that I'm not here to do all your work for you."
"Okay," he said, and to my surprise, I saw his whole face droop! Oh my god, had I pushed him too far? Was this big name artist about to start crying, right in front of me?
Trying to avoid the unfortunate possible outcome of tears, knowing that I wouldn't know how to save this conversation if he started sobbing, I turned my attention hastily back to the list still in his hand. "That's, uh, quite the list there," I said, hoping to distract him.
de St. James blinked as he looked down at the pad of paper in his hand. "I guess things have gotten away from me a little bit," he managed, in what might be the understatement of the decade. I definitely heard the threat of tears in his tone, and realized that I needed to distract him, and fast, to avoid an outburst of sobs.
"But how about this?" I went on, speaking without thinking, just wanting to avoid a meltdown. "I won't tackle everything on that list, obviously, but I'll take on one or two things. Just to show you that I really do have the best intentions for you, and that you can trust me to sell your art."
The artist blinked several times, looking down at the pad of paper as he lifted up one sleeve of his filthy bathrobe to blot at his eyes. "Ten things?"
"Three," I countered firmly.
"Five?"
He was trying to bargain with me? "Nope. Three."
He sighed, but I wasn't going to budge on this, even if he threatened me with the waterworks again. "Fine. Three." He grabbed his pen and started scratching items off the list with thick slashes.
After another minute, he finished, ripped the sheet of paper off of the notepad, and handed it to me. "There. Do these things. Then, maybe, we can talk about you selling my art."
"Great," I said a little faintly, accepting the list and wondering what I'd bitten off. I tried glancing down at it, but de St. James' handwriting was a chicken scratch that was next to impossible to read - and he'd slashed so fiercely at some of the other items on the list that I had a tough time telling which items weren't yet crossed off.
"And until you finish those things," de St. James went on, apparently now back in firm control, his momentary breakdown replaced by annoyance once again, "you can leave me alone to work on my art in peace!" He advanced towards me, putting one hand on my back and propelling me towards his front door.
It didn't take much more encouragement from him to get me out of the dirty, cluttered, claustrophobic interior of his house. I stepped out through his front door, guided by the pressure of his hand on my back - and he slammed the front door shut, right on my heels.
"Great," I said again, looking down at the list
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