Sensing my budding contempt, Easton grips my hand and pulls me to stand, locking eyes with me as if daring me to protest, and I feel every bit of the jolt it evokes. Turning, he guides me behind the counter as the artist gestures toward an empty chair beside the table.
“How’s it going, G?” Easton greets.
“Good,” he replies with an easy grin and the lift of his chin before the two embrace in a brief hug and exchange back claps. As they do, G’s dark blue eyes focus on me.
“So, who do we have here?” A perfect white smile dazzles me as I beat Easton to the punch.
“Natalie. I was just admiring your work. It’s incredible.”
His receptive smile reaches his eyes. “Thanks, Natalie. My friends, and friends of my friends, call me G.”
“Okay, will do.” I say in reply. “Nice place you have here.”
“Thanks. Is that a hint of a Southern accent I detect?”
“You caught that, huh?”
He gives me an inch between tatted fingers. “Li’l bit, and it’s adorable.”
“Well, I’ll take it,” I grin at him. “I’m a proud southerner, but not to an obnoxious extent, I promise.”
“Tell me, Natalie, what is a sweet Southern belle like yourself doing with this asshole?”
“Trust me, I’m no belle.”
“She’s lying,” Easton mutters as we begin to talk over the other.
“She’s drowning in propriety—”
“Those are called manners, Mr. Blunt and Moody.”
“Pure as the driven fucking snow.” Easton quips.
“What am I doing with this asshole?” I narrow my eyes at Easton. “Right now, I’m wondering the same thing.”
Easton turns and snaps at G. “Are we doing this or what?”
Amused by our back and forth, G grins my way. “Someone’s in a mood today.”
“Right?” I agree, widening my eyes as Easton’s nostrils flare in response, and G fails to hold in his chuckle.
“He’s got a nasty temper,” G reveals. “He can get downright street dog fight dirty at times.”
“Does he now? Interesting,” I muse as we both comically turn back to Easton, staring at him like parents expecting an explanation.
“Fuck off with that,” Easton snaps. Unphased, G palms Easton’s shoulder.
“Yes, darling, we’re doing this. Did you get what you needed?”
“Yeah, but I want it altered now, and it’s going to take a little sketching.” Easton retrieves his cell and presents a picture of the sculpture we conversed at the day we met.
“Ah, so there was a reason we were there,” I say, “and I didn’t see you take that.”
“Yeah? Well, did you see him take this?” G asks, thrusting the phone in my direction. Squinting to peer at the screen, I barely make out a black and white image of what looks like my silhouette. He must’ve snapped it while I was lost in thought, staring at the installation. Not a second later, Easton rips the phone from G’s hand.
“What was it?” I ask, feigning ignorance of what I saw as Easton glares at G, who’s chuckling at his discomfort. G somehow placates him with quick words I can’t decipher. Shortly after, the two begin conversing about the tattoo as I take my designated seat, grappling with the fact Easton took a photo of me within an hour of us meeting. Feeling Easton’s gaze dart my way, I avert mine and glance around the parlor as the flutter in my stomach intensifies.
As I contemplate the reasoning behind it, Easton and G stand at the sketch table at the station as G gets to work. In a matter of minutes, G produces a surreal-looking 3D likeness of a section of Chihuly’s sculpture. Several lone stalks of the red glass resembling lightning rods make up the whole of it. The difference is one prominently hovers over the top of the others, sweeping into a full loop before it breaches a few inches above the rest and shoots jaggedly upward.
It’s beautiful and…different.
G glances over at me as I study it. “This is just phase one,” he explains, “he’s got a lot planned for his virgin skin.”
“I don’t doubt it,” I reply. Eyes on the sketch, it saddens me that I’ll only be able to see the finished product in mixed media, and that’s only if Easton decides to release. Further contact with him after I take off tomorrow isn’t an option.
Eyes back on the sketch, I contemplate its meaning until I see Easton start to unbutton his shirt in my periphery. Instantly my attention shifts to his impeccable build and the memory of his heated eyes, his words, and the rest of our unspoken exchange last night. We’d come so close to crossing an uncrossable line. Panties soaked and breathless, I retreated straight to my room, tortured with what-if thoughts every second of the ride up the elevator and through a long soak in the tub. I woke this morning surprised but thankful sleep claimed me before my imagination got a chance to steal more much-needed rest.