The Inspiration (2 page)

As we step further into the restaurant, the host greets us warmly, and it’s apparent that Max has charmed everyone who works here long ago. They fawn over him like a long lost brother and treat me like his adored queen. I don’t even notice him order, but the servers quickly bring us a bottle of Ruffino Chianti and platters of bruschetta, calamari and antipasto.

This is a break?
I think to myself. It’s much grander than I expected and I’m secretly delighted.

Max settles, stretches his strong arms across the top of the booth and watches me intently as I sip my wine and smooth my napkin over my lap.

“So, I’ve never seen you at the show before, Ava. How long have you been working for Adam?”

I hesitate, not sure how much of my story to edit. “Adam offered me a job seven years ago when I was in a tough spot, and he and Katherine ended up bringing me into their family. As a matter of fact, while I finished up my degree at UCLA, I lived in a guesthouse on their property.”

He arches his eyebrows and strokes his chin with his long fingers. “Interesting. So what do you do at the gallery?”

“For several years I’ve helped Sean Kenary run their print studio, but recently Adam’s been getting me involved in various aspects of the business. This is my first time working one of the shows.”

“I wondered why I hadn’t seen you here before. Well, they must think a lot of you.”

“Believe me, the feeling is mutual. I’m not sure what would’ve happened to me if it hadn’t been for them. I owe them a lot.”

He looks at me intently, and I worry he’s wondering about what I didn’t say.

“And what did you study at UCLA?”

“Art history with a focus on contemporary art, and a minor in literature. Literature because of my passion for reading, both classic and current authors, but I also have a particular interest in writing about art.”

He nods and, judging by his expression, he’s impressed. I’m surprised that he’s interested to learn these details about me. Maybe it’s an act, or he isn’t as self-absorbed as I’d surmised.

I decide to change the topic by asking him about his current work. He explains his recent exploration of the influence of technology versus organic inspiration in his work. I hate to admit it, but he’s even sexier when he’s talking about his passion. It’s hard not to be enchanted by him.

“Do you live in L.A. full time?” I ask, trying not to be obvious, while he pours more wine in my glass.

He smiles. “Yes, and there’s a large group from L.A. at the show this year. It seemed as if half the passengers on my flight here were artists and dealers.” He lifts his glass and takes a sip of wine. “I’m staying through Wednesday, but most people are leaving Tuesday after the show closes. How about you?”

“We’re on a later flight Tuesday evening.” I feel a surge of disappointment, wishing I were booked on his Wednesday flight.

Before I know it, we’ve almost emptied the bottle of wine, and the effects have softened all my edges. I’m probably sounding less sharp, but Max doesn’t seem to notice. He’s still engaged in the conversation, and he definitely looks relaxed as he studies me.

“You know, Ava, you have the most beautiful green eyes.”

If he were indeed Cary Grant, at this point in our film he’d reach over and slide my glasses off, loosen my ponytail until my hair cascaded around my shoulders and then let out a low whistle at the way he’s transformed me.

I take a sip of wine and push my glasses up the bridge of my nose. “Are you going to take my glasses off?”

Max gives me a puzzled look. “Why would I do that?”

“I thought dashing guys like you always took the glasses off girls like me.”

He raises his eyebrows. “Actually, I think the glasses are sexy. You’re rocking the serious art dealer look. It’s hot.” He leans closer. “I like to imagine that professional women who dress like this wear smoking lingerie underneath it all.”

I blink, picturing my demure cotton panties with the tiny bow. I give him a saucy look to throw him. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

He narrows his eyes seductively as the corners of his mouth curve up. “I knew it.”

He looks very pleased, and I wonder if he knows how much he’s provoking me. I gaze at his full lips and wonder how they would taste.

He leans forward, places his elbow on the table and rests his chin in his hand. His head tips one direction, then the other. I feel as if I’m being studied for a portrait.

“What?” I ask, before taking another sip of wine.

“You’re really something, Ava.”

“So are you.” I run my fingers down the stem of my wine glass and hope he doesn’t ask me to explain. Instead he elaborates.

“You’re smart, beautiful and sexy too.”

Is he kidding?
I’m doubtful due to the intense look he gives me. I should know better, but damn, this man knows how to unravel a woman. My face is on fire and the flush moves across the top of my chest. I gaze at him while trying to control all the impulses surging through me.

My mind wanders and I imagine he’s leaning back against the booth, his head tipped toward the light while I slowly undo each one of his buttons and pull his shirt open. I start by pressing my lips just under his jaw and slowly burn a trail of kisses across his chest, and down his abdomen. He tangles his fingers in my hair as he holds me gently, his soft moan encouraging me on.

“Ava?”

My eyes snap into focus when I realize he’s speaking again.

“Will you come to my show tomorrow night? You must know Jess. She’ll be there. You could come with her…or of course, you can bring whomever you wish. It’s down in SoHo at ArteHaus.”

“I’d like to go. I’m sure I can come with Jess or even Adam.”

“Give me your phone,” he says, holding out his hand open. “I’ll give you my number and you can call if you can’t arrange it with anyone, and I’ll send my car.”

A thrill shoots up my spine.
Am I really going to do this?

I hand him my phone, and when he’s done entering his number, he pulls out his phone and asks for mine. He’s smooth as silk.

I’m programmed in Max Caswell’s phone
, I giggle to myself. I wonder how many other girls are on that microchip?

He takes another sip of his wine and looks back up as he slides his phone away. “So what’s your passion, Ava? Working in the art field, or is there something else?”

His question and earnest look surprise me. Is there more depth and empathy to him than I realize? I take a sharp breath, realizing this is the first time in my entire life anyone has asked me this question; not just what I want to study in college or do for my career, but what my passion is, what my heart tells me to do. Dozens of thoughts slide through my mind.

“When I moved to California, my intent was to survive and prove I could take care of myself. I was so lucky to meet Adam and Katherine’s son, Brian, who led me to the gallery business.” I smile, remembering those early days getting to know the Kesters. “It’s been very exciting to work in the art world. It’s one of my great passions. But it can be discouraging too, as you know, especially with the Mrs. Stanhopes of the world. It’s eye-opening to learn it’s merely a business to so many.”

“Unfortunately, a majority of the people,” he agrees.

“I’ve loved the experience of getting to know the artists. And seeing how people create sparked that feeling in me to create something too. I’m not an artist, but I do have a gift with words, so now I spend a lot of my free time writing. I recently was accepted into a writing group, so it’s helping me develop my craft and share my work with my peers. It’s nerve-racking, but fulfilling at the same time.”

“That’s cool. It’s so easy to get off-track when real life gets in the way, but always remember, there’s nothing more important than following your passion.”

As he smiles, he skims his fingertips back and forth across the tabletop and I watch, mesmerized. What if it were my bare skin instead?

His face is so alive, so handsome, and the way he’s looking at me makes me feel as if I’m the most important person in the world. As a result, I’ve lost my will to fight my attraction to him.

There are certain moments of clarity where you can feel your world shift, and that’s how I feel in this moment. This complicated man has pushed me off a cliff. The free-fall is terrifying yet exhilarating because I feel a crack opening my heavy heart. I’ve never felt so wide-awake. It’s dangerous and joyful and wicked and deep—the realization that I’m under the spell of Maxfield Caswell—and there’s not a damn thing I can do about it.

“A
re you going to get in trouble?” Max asks with a mischievous grin.

The waiter delivers the check, and Max picks it up immediately so there’s no question who’s paying. The interruption has succeeded in snapping us back to reality before I have a chance to share any more of my story.

“Trouble, why?” Has he been reading my mind? The idea that he knows my illicit thoughts horrifies me, but then I realize he doesn’t and instead studies his watch with a frown.

“We’ve been here over two hours.”

“Good God!” I exclaim, sliding out of the booth. “Adam’s going to kill me. I need to get back.”

“Slow down, Cinderella,” he says with a laugh. “I won’t let our carriage turn into a pumpkin or anything. We’ll get a cab and I’ll call Adam and make up an excuse.”

The restaurant staff showers us with a medley of warm good-byes as we make our way out the door.

It takes a few moments for our eyes to adjust to the bright light after the dim restaurant. The bustle of traffic and people rushing past only amplifies the stunned feeling. I notice a group of exceptionally thin and good-looking people talking to our left. I assume it’s a bunch of models from the agency just down the street, although I can’t be sure.

As we step toward the curb, one of the women turns toward us. Max looks at her, and they both immediately gasp and share wide smiles.

The tall beauty runs over. “Max!” she squeals as she wraps her arms around his neck.

He hugs her, swinging her off her feet. “Katya! It’s been forever. Where’ve you been, beautiful?”

She stays in his arms while they talk and she runs her long fingers through his hair. Meanwhile, his fingers are clasped together behind her back, holding her in place. It’s intimate and makes me uneasy. I feel like leftovers from an all-you-can-eat buffet.

During the time I’d spent with Max, he’d aimed a glowing spotlight on me. Now it’s shifted to
Katya
and I’m left standing in the dark. It’s abrupt and startling, as if I’m not even here, and I feel myself slowly seeping into the cement of the gray, grainy sidewalk. I feel like I’ve been played, and I’m so humiliated I want to disappear.

A vacant cab turns onto our street, so I flag it down and open the door.

“Hey, Ava, I’ll see you back at the show,” Max calls out.

I nod, not looking back until I’m seated and the door is closed. The beautiful couple is still talking animatedly, and I can’t believe how crestfallen I am, considering I only met him hours ago.

As the cab rolls toward the exhibit hall, I admonish myself for believing his flirtation meant something. Some men make a hobby out of charming women.

It’s possible he does it automatically, so effortlessly that he doesn’t even realize the wilted egos he leaves behind. I stoically try to remind myself that, even if Max were interested in me, we’re so different. What could we have together but an impossible mess?

Adam’s involved with clients as I approach our exhibit, so I quietly slip into the viewing room to put my things away. I’m grateful he’s doing so much business because it’s distracted him from my absence for over two hours. The rest of the afternoon stays busy as we prepare for Jess’s appearance.

Jess is my favorite of our artists. She’s tough as nails and doesn’t give a crap about what anyone thinks of her or her art. Her current work, oversized canvases featuring textured paintings of street musicians and dancers, is painted in a loose style with bold strokes and color, full of energy and tension. Collectors either love Jess or hate her, which makes for entertaining openings and appearances. What I wouldn’t give to have a tenth of her attitude.

Samuel, the DJ for our event, has arrived along with the three street dancers we’ve hired to perform. I jump in to direct the bartender where to set up. In all the excitement, I realize there’s no time to go to the hotel and change into my dressier outfit.

“Ava! My favorite bitch!”

I turn crimson as Jess storms toward me laughing, her blonde hair spiked like little daggers around her head. She’s wearing tight black leather pants and a dramatic long jacket with graffiti painted on the back.

“Girl, how the hell are you?”

As Jess grabs me in a bear hug, I look over her shoulder and see her entourage in tow.

“Jess, I’m so glad you’re here.” I sigh happily, feeling grateful because this party will take my mind off the events earlier in the day. “Are you pleased with how things look?” I wave to the artwork. “Anything need to be moved? Is the lighting okay?”

“Yeah, it looks good. And Adam tells me he’s already sold five paintings. It’s all good.” She steps back and looks at me. “But what about you, sweet Ava, I thought you were going to pretty up for my show?”

“I know I promised, Jess, and then I went and forgot my stuff at the hotel. I’m sorry.”

She calls over her girlfriend. “Laura, Ava forgot her fancy threads at her hotel. What can we do with her?”

Without any hesitation Laura leads me into the viewing room and shuts the door behind Jess. Laura’s a makeup artist for film, and working magic is her job. She opens her black canvas tote and pulls a series of items out.

“Take off your shirt.” Laura yanks a small black tank top encrusted with rhinestones out of the bag. “The embellishment is Jess’s logo from her website. It’ll be perfect.”

I remove my shirt, revealing my white lace bra.

She shakes her head. “The bra will have to go too.”