Read Online Selling Grace: A Light Romance Novel (Art of Grace Book 1) by Samantha Westlake - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Samantha Westlake
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his body. A pair of tight black jeans and a matching black sweater, the sleeves of which he'd rolled up to just above his elbows, covered the rest of his lean figure. He looked like he belonged on the cover of a spy magazine, perhaps fighting hand to hand with James Bond, and I suspected that his presence on the silver screen would instantly win over legions of adoring female fans.
No wonder why he'd been featured in magazines, and why people wanted to buy penises that he carved, I thought to myself faintly. The buyers were probably all sex-starved women who just wanted to add to their fantasies about the artist.
Onyx glided over to the other side of my desk, reaching out and placing the binder clip in front of me. "Want to talk about it?" he asked.
I shook my head mutely, looking up at him.
"Good," he said, but he didn't leave.
After another second of silence, during which I did my hardest to not start sweating at the presence of him this close to me, I finally managed to clear my throat. "So, is there, um, something that you needed?" I asked, doing my best to pull together my remaining shreds of professionalism. "Do you need me to get you something?"
Onyx, however, just shook his head. "I sometimes come here when I need inspiration," he said. "Watching how people interact with art, how they respond - it pushes me to try and define the edges of my influence."
I nodded, not even trying to make sense of the words. They came from the mouth of a man who was literally tall, dark, and handsome! He could probably read off a recipe for lasagna from the back of a pasta box, and I'd be totally spellbound as I listened to him.
"So you're just here to watch customers?" I asked. "Unfortunately, we don't have many of those, it seems."
"It's often a lot of waiting," he nodded, and I caught another brief flash of those white teeth in a smile. "Perhaps I also just don't want to sit in my studio when I feel at a loss for inspiration."
Okay, that made more sense. "Anyway, I don't think we've met before," I continued, trying to keep the professionalism going. Salvage the situation, Becca. "I'm Rebecca Grace, but you can call me Becca. I'm going to be the new manager of the Halesford Gallery."
"Pleasure," Onyx murmured, taking my hand and giving it a firm but not overly harsh squeeze. His dark brown eyes peered into mine, and for a moment, I swore that he could definitely read my naughty thoughts about him.
"So, Onyx?" I asked. "That's not your given name is it, I'm guessing?"
Onyx just smiled at me again as he stepped around the desk and grabbed the second chair from behind, drawing it out so that he could sink into it. His actions reminded me of a cat, graceful and precise, as he settled into the chair and propped his long legs up on the desk. His languor made it clear that he wasn't planning on answering my question about his name.
"Do I just make the checks out to Onyx, if someone buys one of your pieces?" I pressed. I was aware that the questions might sound annoying, but decided that my babbling was at least better than awkward silence. "And if someone buys one of your statues, do I have to wrap it up so that there won't be any sort of issue with lewdness when they carry it out?"
He frowned at that. "What do you mean?"
"Well, you know," I said, wondering how to state this in clearer terms without having to say it, well, right out. "They, uh, they look kind of inappropriate. Like, you might not want to let your grandmother see one of them."
Onyx just gazed back at me. I tried to gauge his reaction, but those dark eyes were totally inscrutable. I couldn't even say whether he was truly not sure what I was awkwardly trying to explain, or if he was just stringing me along to mess with me.
"Don't worry about it," I finally gave up after another minute. "But you're welcome to hang out here and avoid doing work. Maybe if some old ladies come in, you can give them a big smile and convince them to buy a bunch of your statues."
He
No wonder why he'd been featured in magazines, and why people wanted to buy penises that he carved, I thought to myself faintly. The buyers were probably all sex-starved women who just wanted to add to their fantasies about the artist.
Onyx glided over to the other side of my desk, reaching out and placing the binder clip in front of me. "Want to talk about it?" he asked.
I shook my head mutely, looking up at him.
"Good," he said, but he didn't leave.
After another second of silence, during which I did my hardest to not start sweating at the presence of him this close to me, I finally managed to clear my throat. "So, is there, um, something that you needed?" I asked, doing my best to pull together my remaining shreds of professionalism. "Do you need me to get you something?"
Onyx, however, just shook his head. "I sometimes come here when I need inspiration," he said. "Watching how people interact with art, how they respond - it pushes me to try and define the edges of my influence."
I nodded, not even trying to make sense of the words. They came from the mouth of a man who was literally tall, dark, and handsome! He could probably read off a recipe for lasagna from the back of a pasta box, and I'd be totally spellbound as I listened to him.
"So you're just here to watch customers?" I asked. "Unfortunately, we don't have many of those, it seems."
"It's often a lot of waiting," he nodded, and I caught another brief flash of those white teeth in a smile. "Perhaps I also just don't want to sit in my studio when I feel at a loss for inspiration."
Okay, that made more sense. "Anyway, I don't think we've met before," I continued, trying to keep the professionalism going. Salvage the situation, Becca. "I'm Rebecca Grace, but you can call me Becca. I'm going to be the new manager of the Halesford Gallery."
"Pleasure," Onyx murmured, taking my hand and giving it a firm but not overly harsh squeeze. His dark brown eyes peered into mine, and for a moment, I swore that he could definitely read my naughty thoughts about him.
"So, Onyx?" I asked. "That's not your given name is it, I'm guessing?"
Onyx just smiled at me again as he stepped around the desk and grabbed the second chair from behind, drawing it out so that he could sink into it. His actions reminded me of a cat, graceful and precise, as he settled into the chair and propped his long legs up on the desk. His languor made it clear that he wasn't planning on answering my question about his name.
"Do I just make the checks out to Onyx, if someone buys one of your pieces?" I pressed. I was aware that the questions might sound annoying, but decided that my babbling was at least better than awkward silence. "And if someone buys one of your statues, do I have to wrap it up so that there won't be any sort of issue with lewdness when they carry it out?"
He frowned at that. "What do you mean?"
"Well, you know," I said, wondering how to state this in clearer terms without having to say it, well, right out. "They, uh, they look kind of inappropriate. Like, you might not want to let your grandmother see one of them."
Onyx just gazed back at me. I tried to gauge his reaction, but those dark eyes were totally inscrutable. I couldn't even say whether he was truly not sure what I was awkwardly trying to explain, or if he was just stringing me along to mess with me.
"Don't worry about it," I finally gave up after another minute. "But you're welcome to hang out here and avoid doing work. Maybe if some old ladies come in, you can give them a big smile and convince them to buy a bunch of your statues."
He