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Authors: Stephanie Tyler
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dammit. He'd pulled me back when he'd answered my distress call at three in the morning, just when I'd needed him most.
Bastard. Of course, I hadn't reached out to call him either, so we had a big game of chicken going on. Or maybe that was only happening in my own head.
Even though I didn't specifically talk about this with Brayden in these terms, he was good about not saying "I told you so." Instead, he took me out, brought me shopping and to dinner and made sure he fueled my art-driven rages.
When I came up for air after the last one, I realized that I'd effectively channeled the hurt and deception into what might be my best work ever. I'd closed the curtains on the city landscape and pictured my beloved woods instead. And when that hadn't worked, I'd gotten in the car and drove the three hours to the place that was still mine. My landlady knew my car, so I wasn't worried about scaring her, despite the fact it was one in the morning.
And finally, everything stilled. I didn't feel the man in the woods there the way I had in the past, not until four in the morning. And finally I was able to paint the way I needed to.
I slept most of the morning, until I couldn't ignore Brayden's incessant phone calls, reminding me of the event he'd committed me to. "Is that tonight?" I groaned. "You barely gave me any notice."
He had the nerve to sound amused when he said, "I told you about it two weeks ago. Come home now. All you've got to do is be showered by six and I'll have everything else taken care of."
I grumbled, but did as he asked. Sort of. I was home by the time Brayden and his glam squad showed at the door. I smiled, and they looked at me, horrified. Probably because I was covered in paint.
Brayden steered me toward the bathroom by the elbow, muttering, "I told you to shower by six."
"I did," I said defensively. "And then I started working again on the commissioned piece."
He stopped, rolled his eyes, because he knew he couldn't argue about a painting that was bringing in that much money, and turned to the two women armed with curling irons and makeup. "Do the best you can. Her hair's still damp so the paint should come out easily. Otherwise, make it look like highlights. Or something." Reluctantly, I sat and let them primp me. Brayden had picked out a dress that I ended up loving, although he refused to tell me where we were going with a definitive other than, "You'll see."
Which meant I was going to hate it.
Brayden called me on my attitude when we got into the car. "Don't get pissy with me because you still haven't heard from Lucas."
"How do you know I haven't heard from him?" I huffed.
He just snorted and handed me a glass of champagne as the limo pulled into the New York city night's traffic. "He's not the kind to keep in touch. We both know the type. We are the type." He softened then. "He's busy. And so are you, right?"
I had to agree. I sat back in the air-conditioned comfort and watched the city slowly roll by. Traffic was always more of a bitch during September, Brayden had warned me, and even though we were only going ten blocks, it would take forty minutes during rush hour.
Finally, we pulled up into a line of limos and I craned to look down the street. There was a red carpet with a step and repeat, tons of photographers and a line of limos around the block. Although yesterday had been a beautifully crisp fall day, today had been closer to sweltering. It was a humid seventy-five degrees and people were rushing to get inside the building and into the air conditioning. I didn't want to leave the car. "This looks like a big event."
"It's for charity," Brayden told me.
"Why are we here?"
"You don't want to do anything charitable?" he asked innocently.
"You've got an angle, Bray."
He didn't argue. "We're here to rehabilitate your image and make you out to be a productive member of society."
"Nice try."
Brayden smirked. "A little charity work goes a long way. Besides, the crazy artist who's sleeping
Bastard. Of course, I hadn't reached out to call him either, so we had a big game of chicken going on. Or maybe that was only happening in my own head.
Even though I didn't specifically talk about this with Brayden in these terms, he was good about not saying "I told you so." Instead, he took me out, brought me shopping and to dinner and made sure he fueled my art-driven rages.
When I came up for air after the last one, I realized that I'd effectively channeled the hurt and deception into what might be my best work ever. I'd closed the curtains on the city landscape and pictured my beloved woods instead. And when that hadn't worked, I'd gotten in the car and drove the three hours to the place that was still mine. My landlady knew my car, so I wasn't worried about scaring her, despite the fact it was one in the morning.
And finally, everything stilled. I didn't feel the man in the woods there the way I had in the past, not until four in the morning. And finally I was able to paint the way I needed to.
I slept most of the morning, until I couldn't ignore Brayden's incessant phone calls, reminding me of the event he'd committed me to. "Is that tonight?" I groaned. "You barely gave me any notice."
He had the nerve to sound amused when he said, "I told you about it two weeks ago. Come home now. All you've got to do is be showered by six and I'll have everything else taken care of."
I grumbled, but did as he asked. Sort of. I was home by the time Brayden and his glam squad showed at the door. I smiled, and they looked at me, horrified. Probably because I was covered in paint.
Brayden steered me toward the bathroom by the elbow, muttering, "I told you to shower by six."
"I did," I said defensively. "And then I started working again on the commissioned piece."
He stopped, rolled his eyes, because he knew he couldn't argue about a painting that was bringing in that much money, and turned to the two women armed with curling irons and makeup. "Do the best you can. Her hair's still damp so the paint should come out easily. Otherwise, make it look like highlights. Or something." Reluctantly, I sat and let them primp me. Brayden had picked out a dress that I ended up loving, although he refused to tell me where we were going with a definitive other than, "You'll see."
Which meant I was going to hate it.
Brayden called me on my attitude when we got into the car. "Don't get pissy with me because you still haven't heard from Lucas."
"How do you know I haven't heard from him?" I huffed.
He just snorted and handed me a glass of champagne as the limo pulled into the New York city night's traffic. "He's not the kind to keep in touch. We both know the type. We are the type." He softened then. "He's busy. And so are you, right?"
I had to agree. I sat back in the air-conditioned comfort and watched the city slowly roll by. Traffic was always more of a bitch during September, Brayden had warned me, and even though we were only going ten blocks, it would take forty minutes during rush hour.
Finally, we pulled up into a line of limos and I craned to look down the street. There was a red carpet with a step and repeat, tons of photographers and a line of limos around the block. Although yesterday had been a beautifully crisp fall day, today had been closer to sweltering. It was a humid seventy-five degrees and people were rushing to get inside the building and into the air conditioning. I didn't want to leave the car. "This looks like a big event."
"It's for charity," Brayden told me.
"Why are we here?"
"You don't want to do anything charitable?" he asked innocently.
"You've got an angle, Bray."
He didn't argue. "We're here to rehabilitate your image and make you out to be a productive member of society."
"Nice try."
Brayden smirked. "A little charity work goes a long way. Besides, the crazy artist who's sleeping
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