Drawn To You (11 page)

“I hope they won’t make you paint over all this if you move,” I say. “It’s incredible work.”

He follows my gaze around the room and shrugs. “If that happens, I’ll make more. This is nothing to write home about.”

“Ezra, of course it is,” I say easily, but he doesn’t respond. “Ezra?” I ask, but I’m met only with silence.

I turn to look at him, and he drops his hand, stuffing it in his back pocket and not quite meeting my eye. He doesn’t believe me. He doesn’t get it. He doesn’t see the magic in his own work, the pure spirit that brings his art to life. “You put more passion and pain into your work than half the people I went to school with,” I tell him. “Anyone who looks at it will be able to see that.”

Ezra’s face transforms. Opens, somehow. The shield that guarded him, that brushed off his art as inconsequential, unimportant, disappears and I see all of him. His drive. His vulnerability. His incredible passion that burns white hot.

He comes closer, reaching out to run his fingertips over my shoulder. They leave a trail of goosebumps in their wake.

“You make me feel like more than a party trick,” he says.

I swallow, watching his mouth move as he talks. “That’s because you
are
more than a party trick.”

He closes the distance between us, tracing the line of my neck, drawing me nearer to him. I melt under his touch, the pressure of his fingers against my skin intoxicating. “Mia,” he murmurs, before sweeping me up in a kiss. My lips part and I nearly moan against him. Suddenly all I need is to have him closer. He backs me into the wall so that I’m up against his painting, the color stretching around me like wings. Miraculously, the nagging voice in my head is absent, which is good, because I want this so desperately. I run my fingers through the hair at his temples, gripping it and pulling him in deeper until his body is flush against mine.

My body is coming alive, begging for more. My blood thrums beneath my skin and every touch resonates down to my very core. It’s not just that a beautiful man is kissing me – it’s that it’s Ezra, and Ezra sees the art etched into my bones. He’s brave and bold, everything I wish I could be.

And he wants me.

His hand trails down my side and over my hip, tapping patterns on the outside of my thigh. I feel his tongue brush along the seam of my mouth and our breath mingles together. He tastes like coffee in the very best way.

The door to my heart is opening, and this time I want it to. I want to fling it wide.

My hands rove from Ezra’s hair to his shoulders as I pull back enough to kiss down the length of his throat. He sighs and wraps his arm around the small of my back to lift me off my feet. We pivot together and the next thing I know, I’m on his lap on the couch. My hair comes undone.

I run my fingers down his upper arms and grip him tight as he pulls me closer. The muscles of his biceps flex under my hands and I have a very sudden and very burning desire to get his shirt off.

When I break our kiss to make enough room between us to get to his buttons, he stops me long enough that he can sweep my hair out of my eyes and tilt his face up to brush my nose with his lips. It’s enough to make a girl turn to a puddle on the floor.

My hands are shaking as I undo his buttons. I want this so much, but this is the most intimate I’ve been with someone since…

No. I’m not thinking of that tonight.

I plant more kisses on Ezra’s neck as I slide his shirt off of his shoulders. He rolls them to make it easier on me, and I admire the way the movement makes his tattoos ripple. They stretch over his shoulders and torso, bright and full of life. I trace a tree twining up his ribs, admiring every muscle as I go. Then I place an open-mouthed kiss on the cresting waves over his heart and he hums in appreciation.

He encircles me with his arms and stands with me still wrapped around his waist. I laugh and get him to put me down before he leans in for another kiss.

As he takes my hand and pulls me gently toward his bed, I drink in the tattoos on his back. One right between his shoulder blades makes me pause because it’s so unlike the others. Bright blues and oranges cover most of his skin, but this tattoo is a void – completely black. The silhouette of a winged man plummets, his feathers scattering on either side of Ezra’s spine. Script twists out from the black to curve along the underside of his shoulder blade. It reads, “I will survive the fall.”

I stop, and the weight of me tugs Ezra’s hand to makes him turn around to look. He’s lovely in the yellow light of the exposed bulbs, his eyes languid and dark with want.

“Are you all right?” he asks. “We can stop if you want.”

I shake my head. “It’s not that, it’s just...” I gently reach out to turn him so I can look at his back again, and I put my palm over the falling man.

“This tattoo isn’t like your others,” I say. “Why is that?”

As if I’ve flipped a switch, he goes rigid beneath my hand. I feel him strain against himself trying and failing to relax. He pulls away.

“Not anything you need to worry about,” he says in a measured voice.

I rub my knuckles together, my nerves creeping up on me. Did I do something wrong? Did I open the door to a past he wants to hide from?

His past can’t push me away from him. If anybody understands being marked by darkness, it’s me.

“I know what it’s like to run from your shadows,” I say quietly. “If you don’t want to talk about it, I understand, but I’m here if you do.”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” he says, and there’s finality in his tone that I don’t push.

“Okay.” I think about our first dates, how he never pushed me, but waited patiently, gently, for me to come to him. I will be as good as him. I’m resolved to it. But when I look at him, at the dark ink stained across his spine, the urge to ask again rises. It’s not just from curiosity, but the desire to know him, this incredible person who surprises me at every turn. I want to know
all
of Ezra, and have him know me.

His features soften as he looks at me. He reaches out and pulls me in for another kiss, but this one is gentle. Kind.

I press my forehead to his, so that the tips of our noses touch and his eyelashes nearly skim mine. “It’s late. I should probably head home.”

“Stay,” he says. “You don’t have to go. Sleep here tonight.”

I haven’t slept anywhere but my apartment since I moved here. It’s not lost on me that spending the night means letting him even deeper into my life. Am I ready for that?

His eyes shine with hope as he looks at me, his hands resting softly on my hips. A person would need willpower of steel to resist that look.

Yeah. I’m ready.

“I’ll stay.” I lean down over him and his eyes go heavy-lidded as I kiss him.

I text Audrey to let her know I won’t be home tonight and crawl beneath the sheets, tangling my legs with Ezra’s. He rubs my back and I memorize the muscles of his chest with my hands, paying special attention to the beat of his heart. I wonder if mine’s this steady. I doubt it.

He whispers into my skin. “Goodnight, Autumn.”

“Goodnight, Summer,” I echo, feeling him warm me like the sun.

As I’m drifting off to sleep, I think of how disappointed Audrey will be that I don’t have a bunch of hot, sexy details to spill to her over breakfast tomorrow.

But then again, as Ezra’s pulse beats against my lips, I don’t especially care.

U
nsurprisingly
, Audrey’s laying in wait the second I walk through the front door.

She hangs over the back of the couch, purple coffee cup in one hand. The whole apartment smells like cinnamon and espresso.

“Spill,” she demands, then takes a noisy sip of her coffee.

I roll my eyes and trudge past her toward my room. “Let me shower first.”

She’s already up off the couch and following on my heels. “Spill,” she says again.

“Audrey, seriously, I have an imprint on my hip from sleeping on the zipper of my skirt all night. Could I have a minute?” I push my way into my bedroom and, much to my chagrin, she follows me inside. Thank God I took down all my sketches already.

“Spill. Spill. Spill.”

“Audrey, would you--”

“Spill.”

“I’m really getting--”

“Less cranking, more spilling.”

“Fine,” I sigh as I yank off my top and throw it at her. “I spent the night at Ezra’s. Happy?”

She squeals, holding her mug in both hands and doing a little dance. “I need details!”

“You’ll get details after you let me brush my damn teeth. Now get out.”

She complies, and after the door clicks shut behind her, I cover my face in my hands to cover the absurd grin plastered across it.

Once I’ve freshened up, I come out to the kitchen for a bowl of cereal and find Audrey already dressed in a chunky sweater and overlarge scarf.

“Going out?” I ask. I’m surprised she’s going to leave before getting the full story.

She leans over the counter. “
We’re
going out. Stumptown has new blends. I’ll buy you breakfast and you can give me all the savory details. Let’s go!”

I groan. “But I just got home.”

“Coffee time. Come on.”

“No way.”

“I’ll get you a blueberry bourbon basil donut from Blue Star Donuts on the way.”

I slam the cereal box on the counter and wag my spoon at her. “That is a dirty, dirty trick.”

She beams at me. “I know. Go put on something warmer.”

I silently curse letting her discover my weakness for sugary pastries and skulk back to my room to dig out some appropriately cozy clothes. Nothing fashionable – I used up my quota of looking cute this morning by sneaking off to the bathroom before Ezra woke up to make sure my hair was adorably sleep-tousled rather than a rat’s nest.

I remember the warmth of his body next to mine as I crawled back under the covers beside him and the way he smiled in his sleep as he reached for me. His hair had come loose and fell across his face. The memory makes me break into a goofy grin.

Audrey decides to spring for an Uber, so we hop in and ride to Southwest Washington Street for our donuts. Blue Star Donuts isn’t the tourist trap that Voodoo Donuts has become, but it’s popular with locals, so there’s already a line. Thankfully they’ve just made a fresh batch of the blueberry bourbon basil, so I snag one. Audrey opts for the bananas foster and we happily munch on our prizes as we walk down and around the corner.

“This is the best thing I’ve put in my mouth all week,” Audrey moans around a bite of her donut. “I might die.”

“I’ll make sure your obituary reads, ‘She died as she lived: overcaffeinated and hyperbolic,’” I say.

Stumptown Coffee comes into view ahead of us. The storefront is nothing but windows, so we can see that the line’s pretty reasonable as we push our way inside. If warmth had a smell, it would smell like this place: all frothed milk and espresso, the mingling of sleepy patrons before their morning caffeine dose. Once we get our coffee – a light roast for me and some kind of almond latte I can’t pronounce for Audrey – and score a spot near the front window, she takes a calculated sip of her coffee and makes her move.

“Okay, you’re fed and caffeinated,” she says. “You owe me details. Leave nothing unsaid.”

I raise my eyebrows, lifting my cup and making a show of savoring my sip. I smack my lips dramatically. I’m about to go in for another slurp when Audrey groans and swats my unoccupied hand.

“You are a tease and I love you for it. Tell me.”

Despite myself, I feel my mouth quirk up. “He invited me to the exhibit at the MAG last night.”

“Yeah, he called me and I figured he might.” She leans on her hand, expectant. “Go on.”

“It was a really incredible exhibit, you would have loved --”

“Now you’re stalling, and it’s very rude,” she says, but her scold is dampened by her smile.

I sigh. “Fine, make me cut to the ending, I see how it is.”

She waggles her eyebrows at me. “I hope it was a happy one.”

I put my hand up to hide my face. “We didn’t have sex.”

“Aw,” she says, her expression falling in disappointment. “Way to bury the lead.”

“It wasn’t the right time yet.”

She takes another drink. “Okay, fair enough. I can respect that. So there was no boinking… what
was
there?”

“I did get his shirt off.” I shrug.

“Oh, good. That’s good.” She leans closer. “Tell me about that. Was he ripped?”

“Are you serious? You sound like a middle schooler.”

“It’s an important question.”

Despite my embarrassment, I feel a giddy laugh rise in me. Sometimes it’s hard to remember that Audrey isn’t my best friend.

Although, as I’m contemplating spilling last night’s details, I realize that maybe she is.

“He’s got some pretty nice obliques,” I admit.

“Now we’re talking,” she says. “Did you lose your shirt next?”

I bite my lip and shake my head. “Not exactly.”

Audrey reaches out to touch my hand. “I take it that’s when things slowed down?”

She’s so good at making me feel like I can tell her anything, and suddenly I’m spilling more than the superficial details.

“I think something happened in his past. He closed up pretty tight when I asked about one of his tattoos,” I say.

“Hm,” Audrey muses. “Shutting up tight when someone gets too close to your history. I don’t know anyone who does that, do you?”

“Yeah, well.” I glance away from her, watching people walk by outside the window. “Sometimes things belong to you and no one else. Sometimes it’s complicated.”

She nods as she listens, idly swirling her spoon through her latte’s froth. “Yeah. And maybe his story is complicated.”

“True.” I put my elbows on the counter and look out the window. The line is only getting longer as the morning goes on. I watch a young family, the tattooed and incredibly trendy parents having a slow, sleepy conversation, the dad leaning easily against their double stroller.

“Besides,” Audrey says. “You can’t really expect Ezra to bare it all when you won’t bare anything. I mean that in the emotional sense, not the getting naked sense.”

“I figured.”

Audrey nudges me playfully. “I actually fully approve of the two of you baring it all in the naked sense. I need to live vicariously.”

I laugh and toss my napkin at her. “You go on tons of dates.”

“Lots of first dates, very few second dates.” She sighs and rests her chin in her hand. Now she watches the trendy family, and I’m pretty sure she’s checking the dad out.

“I’m sure it’s just that you haven’t met your best match yet,” I say. “Maybe the night life makes it too hard to get to know someone.”

“It’s my only chance to meet anyone new,” she says. “My job keeps me in the office all day, and the partners are all old and married. Concerts and parties at least introduce me to some new blood.” She sighs and hooks her feet around the legs of her stool. “Now I have to find the right new blood.”

I’m about to respond when my phone goes off. I dig it out of my bag and see a new text from Ezra. Audrey notices me trying to hide my grin behind my hand and laughs.

“What’s your personal Picasso have to say?” she asks.

I read, “Duke’s playing some of his original stuff tonight at the bar across from the Roseland Theater. Interested?”

Audrey’s eyes go wide.

“Duke was the cute DJ from the Catacombs party, right? Mia.” She gathers up my hands in hers, squeezing a little too hard. “Take me with you. This could be a sign leading to the end of my singledom.”

One month ago, I would have said no way. Not a chance. I hate crowds, I hate brushing elbows, I hate it all. Today, though, I’m feeling amicable. Audrey’s good to me, even when I’m being a burrito of misery on the couch. I owe her. Besides, Duke actually did seem nice.

I text Ezra back, “Okay if Audrey comes with?”

“Of course,” he responds. “I think Duke would appreciate that, actually. See you there at 9?”

“See you then.” I consider adding an emoji, but it feels too cutesy, so I let the message ride as is and hope it reads as casual-but-not-aloof.

“So?” Audrey says. “Are we going?”

“Yeah, we’re going,” I say, bracing myself for her excited squeals.

B
y the time
we get back to the apartment, we have a few hours to kill. Audrey bustles off to work on a deposition summary and I retreat to my room.

I walk over to my bed and sink down on it, pulling my curtains aside and looking down at the street below. People mill around, going about their days or picking up lunch. Couples walk hand in hand, mothers carry their babies in wraps on their chests, and students meander past while checking their phones.

My fingers are itching to create a scene, so I dig around under my bed and pull out my latest sketchbook and a tin of pencils. The first lines come easily, and I switch between colors more rapidly than I usually do. Most of my work lately has been hard, flat, and monotone. As I blend and weave on the page, I find myself bringing out more life in my subjects, their eyes looking back out at me.

I finish portraits of passersby, of the mothers and their laughing babies and the man selling flowers from a nearby stall near the closest park. They’re all swirling together in bursts of color.

They’re happy.

I’m on a drawing high now, and it taps into part of my brain that I haven’t been able to access in a while. My pencil flies across the page, bringing two curly-haired girls to life. Music and laughter binds them together, ribbons of sunlight twining around their clasped hands. I draw and draw, shading them in and relishing their joy.

By the time I’ve finished, I’m hungry again. I sign my name at the bottom of the page, which I haven’t done in ages. I walk to my desk, laying the sketchbook down so I can really look at it.

A tear lands near one of the purple flowers at the girls’ feet and I brush it away. It leaves a streak on the paper, but it fits in with the blended watercolor pencils.

This is the first time I’ve drawn Iris in full color in over a year.

She looks alive.