Draw Me In (2 page)

And
then there was Ian.

There
was no stereotype when it came to him. He was masculine and strong, yet tender
and artistic in a way that made him irresistibly sexy as he took up residence
in the space of that juxtaposition. Which completely sucked because his
undeniable magnetic aura was the reason I
’
d
spent my freshman year of college pining after a guy that I hadn
’
t realized could never love me back.

But
as it would turn out, Ian absolutely did fall in love with me, just not in a romantic
way like I
’
d
hoped for back when I had naively fantasized about him throughout our freshman
Photographic Elements of Composition class. He
’
d become my brother
—
my right hand man
—
and over the past
three years he was the best roommate I could
’
ve ever hoped for or created out of
my own needs and wistful desires.

Clean
and organized with his toiletries strategically lining the bathroom like the
cologne decoratively displayed at the counter at Macy
’
s. Talented in the kitchen and a
total foodie with culinary skills of an up and coming New York chef. And best
of all, he had become a sort of personal shrink for me as I navigated my way
through the high and lows of all that New York had to offer, that falsetto
versus the natural voice. Ian was my middle C. He was my everything, filling
almost every need I could dream up.

However,
when it came to romance, that was a bill he obviously couldn
’
t foot.

Unfortunately,
that was also the case for the last four guys I
’
d tried to date. I didn
’
t consider myself incredibly picky
when it came to men, but I understood I was probably a little harder to get
than other women my age. And I don
’
t
mean hard to get in a way that implied I was all about the chase. That type of
game adults play.

I
wasn
’
t
like that. I wasn
’
t
a tease. If anything I was probably a little too easy. I
’
d crossed over home plate enough
times that I might as well have been a catcher, I hung out there so often. I
made myself comfortable, dug my cleats into the dirt and readied my position.

I
wasn
’
t
physically hard to get. Maybe I was just hard to understand.

The
last guy I spent any amount of time with was the son of a Fortune 500 business
owner, and I doubted an art student/barista/youth mentor was exactly what his
father had in mind for a future daughter-in-law.

Old
men dreamt big for their sons, I knew that. They grew up, lived out their own often
unsatisfying lives, and then, when they were no longer convinced they could
fulfill their aspirations held from youth, they stole the youth of their kin
and tacked their hopes onto them like some type of Father/Son pass-the-baton
race.

Some
called it legacy. I called it being a vicarious has-been.

This
particular boy I
’
d
been dating called it off quickly before I had any time to get attached, which
seemed to be the running trend with all of my relationships as of late. I
’
d probably always remain unattached,
never even giving my own name an opportunity to fasten itself to another.

Sometimes
I wondered if I
’
d
forever be a Julie Thornton. If my identity would solely be mine and never
intertwine with someone else
’
s.
Twenty-two wasn
’
t
old by any stretch of the imagination, but I saw others my age being plucked
off, one by one, joining the fold of partners and duos. I was a singleton. If I
’
m going to let my guard down and be
completely honest here, sometimes that got lonely.

I
was thankful for trips like this. For the times when the minutes in my life
coincided with someone else
’
s
minutes and our clocks ticked down side by side. These were the experiences we
’
d sit around reliving years later,
drinks in hand. We
’
d
retrieve the filed away memories from the vault and reread the script to live
them out again, this time in story form.

I
was lucky to have this season with Ian and my students.

Life
was meant to be shared.

As
I looked back up at the statue, my pulse stuttered at the notion that
Michelangelo had been a recluse, much like many of his artistic peers strung
across the years before and after him.

Was
I wrong in wanting anything other than that kind of life? Was I wrong in
wishing for more than just my art to satisfy and fulfill me?

Then
it hit me, a cold slab of marble to my thoughts.

Maybe
that wasn
’
t
what Michelangelo wanted, either. Maybe that just ended up being the life he
created.

The
problem was, you could love your work with all you had
—
pour every ounce of
yourself into it like you were filling it up with your very own blood
—
but you could never
give it a soul, no matter how lifelike and immortal it may appear.

And
from what I figured I knew about life and love, the soul was where it all
began.

CHAPTER TWO

“
Earth to Jules.
”

I
snapped my head quickly, eyes slamming with Ian
’
s as he intercepted my far-off stare.
I
’
d mindlessly been eyeing David
’
s package for the past hour, which
would have been weird, but come on, let
’
s
be honest, that
’
s
what at least half of the other people here were doing.

“
He got you under some sort of spell?
”
A slight dimple pricked into Ian
’
s left cheek as he pointed a finger
back toward the statue. The dip held there as a smirk fastened to his mouth.
“
The kiddos are doing their sketches,
and I
’
m
off to shoot some Florentine street life. You okay to stay here with the crew
or should I find someone a little less hypnotized?
”

“
No.
”
I slid my leather messenger bag off
my shoulder and dug into it to retrieve my own sketchpad and pencils. Some
women toted lipstick and compacts in their purses as a way to refresh their
look. I carted around art supplies and notebooks in my bag as a way to refresh
my outlook.
“
That
totally works for me. Meet you at the square at 12:00?
”

“
Perfecto.
”
Ian flashed another award-winning
grin as he bowed while walking backward toward the museum exit.
“
Bye, Jules,
”
he called over the crowd between us.
His words bounced off of heads like an arcade game of pinball. Jump, jump,
ping, jump until it reached the shell of my ears.

“
Ciao, Ian.
”

I
zigzagged my way through the people, stopping to admire the work of each of my
students as I passed. Liquid creativity splashed onto their pages with each
brush of their fingertips.

Glancing
to my wrist, I debated whether or not to start my own sketch. Truth be told, I
probably had enough drawings of David to wallpaper my room back in our NYC
apartment. Actually, I knew I did. I tried it once, but after Grandma passed
out upon entering my bedroom the year Ian and I hosted Thanksgiving dinner at
our loft, I decided to take them down and return them to their previous home
under my bed.

Turns
out that the whole
‘
too
much of a good thing
’
notion is actually true. I
’
m
not sure Grandma ever did recover, but luckily she was suffering from mild
dementia (if literally losing one
’
s
mind could ever be labeled as lucky), so she didn
’
t remember that one time her
granddaughter tried to kill her via nude art overdose.

Even
though I had a trunkful of Davids back in New York, it never stopped me from
adding to the collection each time I visited the museum. I
’
d made this trip to Florence four
times so far with different students over the past year alone, and before that,
Ian and I had spent the summer between our sophomore and junior years of
college backpacking our way through the Italian countryside like any good art
student would do. It came with the territory.

Today
’
s territory was the gallery.

This
museum practically became my second home during that year of travel with Ian.
And David was by far my favorite muse.

But
for as much as I adored this statue, I figured it was probably time to find
some alternate inspiration. Repetition birthed boredom. I didn
’
t want to tire of David, so I stopped
before I toed toward that inevitable line.

I
unhooked the buckle and lifted the flap on my bag to stow away my art supplies,
canvas folding over on itself like an envelope of fabric. Today I would just
ogle. That would do. Maybe tomorrow I
’
d
find another statue to sketch. Get a new muse.

The
room was still bustling with the mingle of tourists so I stepped up on toe to
count the heads of each of my students, just to make certain they were all
accounted for one last time. I
’
d
yet to lose one on any of these trips, but I really didn
’
t want today to be one for that kind
of first.

Six,
seven, eight... When I
’
d
located each one, I pulled out my phone to check the time. But before I could
even wrap my fingers around the case of my cell or swipe a finger across the
screen, a broad shoulder slammed into me, solid rock disguised as muscle that
jolted my feet from their secure stance and hijacked my balance. I teetered on
my heels as two hands landed on my body. Hot. Charged. Intrusive but shockingly
welcome. One splayed on the low curve of my back
—
real low, skimming the roundness of
my backside
—
the
other delicately wrapped around my right wrist, a loose handcuff of warm skin
encircling mine.

I
knew the museum was crowded, but I hadn
’
t
expected to practically land on my own backside while viewing David
’
s backside.

I
also hadn
’
t
expected to lock eyes with a man
’
s
whose captivating beauty rivaled that of the immortalized statue behind him.

My
breath caught in my throat. My mouth went instantly dry, all sandpaper and
sawdust like I
’
d
swallowed Aisle 6 of the Home Depot.

Blood
thundered. Too much blood. It stretched out to all parts of my body, leaving me
hot and fevered in places that never felt that way. Places that never felt
anything.

“
Permesso
,
”
the man who couldn
’
t be older than twenty-five uttered,
his palm pressing into my back. I reacted to it deep in my gut. More heat
pooled in the recesses of my stomach.

Holy
mother of pearl, his voice belonged to an angel with just enough rasp to hint
at the devil.

I
gaped, untethered from earth. Everything in me turned liquid. My bones ceased
being bones.

“
Bella?
”
His eyes were the most intense aqua
I
’
d seen and I swam in the liquid ocean
of them. No, I didn
’
t
swim. I drowned.
“
Bella?
”
It was like he was asking if I was
okay.

“
Si.
”
I shook my head. I was all right, I
wasn
’
t
hurt. Aside from the almost drowning.
“
I
mean, si. I mean, I
’
m
fine.
”
I rubbed my forehead with my fingers and instantly felt the sheen of nervous
sweat that gathered there.

He
pulled his hand from my wrist and dropped it lightly onto my waist, a ghost of
a hand. It almost felt like we were about to dance. Well, at least my insides
were dancing. Everything fluttered with the force of a swarm of butterflies let
loose inside my ribcage. Even my breathing faltered into an unsteady,
rhythmless pace. Wings flapping, beating together, clashing.

I
couldn
’
t
pull my eyes from him.

The
chestnut wave of his hair was cropped to show off his angular face. The thin,
straight slope of his nose. The high rise of his sharply chiseled cheekbones.
The defined square cut of his jaw dusted with just enough stubble to add rugged
to his many descriptions. His eyes were shaped like almonds and the dark arch
of his brow framed them to perfection.

He
was absolutely stunning; the artistry of Michelangelo
’
s stone come to life before my eyes.

“
You sure you
’
re okay?
”
he said, this time in English and
the lack of a noticeable accent threw me for a loop and tossed me into utter
confusion. I
’
d
totally assumed he was Italian.
“
You
’
re not hurt at all?
”
He dipped his head down to my level
and searched my eyes, wicked blue flickering like a flashlight swung side to
side, connecting every so often in blinding hit of light.

He
was tall. At least six-one or six-two. I had to crane my neck up to meet his
gaze.

I
forced an embarrassingly loud swallow and muttered,
“
No, I
’
m fine. Thank you.
”

“
Well, you shouldn
’
t really be thanking me,
”
he smiled, his full lips revealing
gleaming white teeth. All straight, except a bottom one that spun slightly
inward. Not at all an imperfection, but the only hint that he must be real. I
silently thanked his parents for not paying for braces. I needed this moment of
realization to be certain it wasn
’
t
all a dream.
“
Don
’
t thank me. I very nearly knocked you
off of your feet.
”

A
snort of a laugh flew out of my mouth. Oh, how he
had
knocked me off of my feet.

He
pulled his two large hands from my body and straightened the knot of his black
tie. Twisting neck. Set jaw. The suit he wore had to cost more than a year
’
s worth of my rent, and it fit as
though it had been made and tailored just for him. I supposed it probably was.
All I knew was that it didn
’
t
come from that thrift store of mine. This was clothing on a whole different
level, not just the kind that draped across your body out of necessity. No, he
wore his clothes like they were an extension of him. A second skin.

It
was funny because throughout all of my studies I
’
d come to adore the human body in its
natural form. How the muscles molded around bone and how flesh wrapped around
that muscle. I
’
d
never been one for covering it up in my art, but standing here in front of this
man in his perfectly fitted suit changed my mind on that matter. He was
beautiful, and the clean lines and angles matched the structure of his face so
effortlessly that I had to fight the urge to rip my pencils and paper from my
bag and begin sketching him right there.

“
I really am fine, thank you,
”
I said, knowing my cheeks had to
radiate the blush that I could feel so hot on my skin. Blood, once again,
betraying my body, collecting on my face and burning me from the inside out.

“
Okay.
”
He drew my hand from my side and
lifted it up to his mouth. When he placed his lips gently onto the row of
knuckles, I almost fainted. Soft, like beaten and worn leather. That sueded
plush touch caressed my skin. He didn
’
t
move after doing it. Instead he just kept his eyes trained on mine. Then his
mouth fell open slightly, and I swore he was about to say more.

I
bound the air up in my chest, waiting for him to speak.

His
brow tightened faintly and without another word, he stepped back as he released
his command on my hand. Tourists and museum goers instantly filtered into the
gap with their bodies and chatter ensued until I couldn
’
t see or hear him any longer through
the crowd rushing between us.

It
took a moment of hesitation before I could collect my composure. Pieces of it
were scattered everywhere. On his hands, on his lips, in his eyes.

He
’
d rendered me completely helpless.
Useless. A shell of myself sapped of any real thought or speech. Just hormones.
Just desire. Need and want, though I couldn
’
t differentiate between the two at
the moment.

I
’
d never felt anything like that with
someone before. It was only a few moments, but the undeniable exchange burned
into me with a lasting intensity.

Yeah,
he
’
d
left me rattled. A complete mess, to be honest. But he
’
d also left me with something else.
Something my soul had been searching for, but I hadn
’
t expected to find so quickly.

This
gorgeous, nameless man was about to become my latest muse.