long time. I’m surprised somebody didn’t snap it up sooner; knock it down. South Beach is just a few blocks away.”
“It’s the perfect place for an art show.” I step into an open space with vaulted ceilings and pristine white stucco walls. The floors are a worn hard wood covered in colorful, patterned area rugs. There’s a sitting area with a retro yellow couch and two leather armchairs, plus a long, reclaimed wood dining table surrounded by mismatched chairs. A rickety white staircase leads to a lofted area. “How’d you get the owner to let you use the place?”
“It’s… mine, actually. I’ve been renovating it for the last few years.”
“You did all this yourself?” Long, thin stained glass windows cast hazy rainbows over Luke’s chiseled jaw and defined chest.
“It’s been fun,” he says lightly. “Treating the place like one giant piece of art. Hey. Speaking of, take a look at these.” He leads me to one side of the room, where canvases and photographs of various sizes are arranged on long wooden shelves.
“Student art?”
He nods. “This is the reason I teach this stuff. So much of the time, I think we go through the day just lecturing at our students. We don’t give them credit for being actual people, for having something real to say. If we just give them the space and materials, it’s crazy what they can express, you know? It’s cool just to be a part of the process.”
I stare at him, wondering if he’s real, or the Universe’s idea of a sick joke. A smart, sensitive guy who looks this good in jeans doesn’t seem genetically possible.
“I’m rambling. You probably don’t care about this stuff.”
“No. Stop. I do.” I reach out to shove him playfully, and my hand lands on his chest. It’s rock solid, the kind of chest that makes me want to drop to my knees wherever the altar used to be and give thanks. I can feel his heart beating beneath his t-shirt. Neither of us pulls away.
“I get kind of carried away sometimes.” His eyes find mine, and suddenly I’m not sure if he’s talking about art or work or the insane energy buzzing between us.
“I love how much you love your job.”
“It’s just that after… the accident, art was the thing that saved me. People get really uncomfortable when you tell them you’re sad, or pissed, or whatever. But with art, you can say what you need to and it’s okay.”
A lump forms in my throat, and I nod. I want to take away the pain I see in his eyes. But I recognize that kind of pain; know it well. And I know that there’s nothing I can do to wrestle him from its grip.
“What up, Mr. Poulos?” The door flies open, and Vi Miller prances in, followed by a gaggle of mini dress-clad girls. Who look less like girls and more like women on their way to a Real Housewives casting call. They teeter in on too-high stilettos. It’s stupid, but suddenly my flat Grecian sandals don’t feel like enough.
Luke coughs and takes a giant step back. “Come on in, folks. There’s soda and snacks in the kitchen. What can I get you?” As he passes me he whispers
sorry
, his lips nearly grazing my ear, which does zero to ease the tension in my body.
I hang by the art wall as small groups of students arrive, plus a few art teachers I haven’t met. Apparently, this isn’t a school-wide event. So Luke really did want me here, after all. In his house. My eyes follow the staircase to the lofted room above, where a king-size mattress rests beneath a huge mobile, probably six feet wide, made of colored glass and bits of broken pottery. I can picture Luke stretched out beneath it, diluted color rinsing his body. I can picture my mouth on him.
“Care for a cocktail?” Suddenly, Luke is next to me, carrying a red solo cup splattered in pink paint. I inhale a sharp breath. “Ginger ale, with a twist of lime.”
“Sure. Just one, though.” I smile and take a sip. It really is straight ginger ale, which makes me laugh. “More than one of
“It’s the perfect place for an art show.” I step into an open space with vaulted ceilings and pristine white stucco walls. The floors are a worn hard wood covered in colorful, patterned area rugs. There’s a sitting area with a retro yellow couch and two leather armchairs, plus a long, reclaimed wood dining table surrounded by mismatched chairs. A rickety white staircase leads to a lofted area. “How’d you get the owner to let you use the place?”
“It’s… mine, actually. I’ve been renovating it for the last few years.”
“You did all this yourself?” Long, thin stained glass windows cast hazy rainbows over Luke’s chiseled jaw and defined chest.
“It’s been fun,” he says lightly. “Treating the place like one giant piece of art. Hey. Speaking of, take a look at these.” He leads me to one side of the room, where canvases and photographs of various sizes are arranged on long wooden shelves.
“Student art?”
He nods. “This is the reason I teach this stuff. So much of the time, I think we go through the day just lecturing at our students. We don’t give them credit for being actual people, for having something real to say. If we just give them the space and materials, it’s crazy what they can express, you know? It’s cool just to be a part of the process.”
I stare at him, wondering if he’s real, or the Universe’s idea of a sick joke. A smart, sensitive guy who looks this good in jeans doesn’t seem genetically possible.
“I’m rambling. You probably don’t care about this stuff.”
“No. Stop. I do.” I reach out to shove him playfully, and my hand lands on his chest. It’s rock solid, the kind of chest that makes me want to drop to my knees wherever the altar used to be and give thanks. I can feel his heart beating beneath his t-shirt. Neither of us pulls away.
“I get kind of carried away sometimes.” His eyes find mine, and suddenly I’m not sure if he’s talking about art or work or the insane energy buzzing between us.
“I love how much you love your job.”
“It’s just that after… the accident, art was the thing that saved me. People get really uncomfortable when you tell them you’re sad, or pissed, or whatever. But with art, you can say what you need to and it’s okay.”
A lump forms in my throat, and I nod. I want to take away the pain I see in his eyes. But I recognize that kind of pain; know it well. And I know that there’s nothing I can do to wrestle him from its grip.
“What up, Mr. Poulos?” The door flies open, and Vi Miller prances in, followed by a gaggle of mini dress-clad girls. Who look less like girls and more like women on their way to a Real Housewives casting call. They teeter in on too-high stilettos. It’s stupid, but suddenly my flat Grecian sandals don’t feel like enough.
Luke coughs and takes a giant step back. “Come on in, folks. There’s soda and snacks in the kitchen. What can I get you?” As he passes me he whispers
sorry
, his lips nearly grazing my ear, which does zero to ease the tension in my body.
I hang by the art wall as small groups of students arrive, plus a few art teachers I haven’t met. Apparently, this isn’t a school-wide event. So Luke really did want me here, after all. In his house. My eyes follow the staircase to the lofted room above, where a king-size mattress rests beneath a huge mobile, probably six feet wide, made of colored glass and bits of broken pottery. I can picture Luke stretched out beneath it, diluted color rinsing his body. I can picture my mouth on him.
“Care for a cocktail?” Suddenly, Luke is next to me, carrying a red solo cup splattered in pink paint. I inhale a sharp breath. “Ginger ale, with a twist of lime.”
“Sure. Just one, though.” I smile and take a sip. It really is straight ginger ale, which makes me laugh. “More than one of
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