CHAPTER ONETHEA
“Is that really what you’re going to wear?” Candace looked at me questioningly. She tapped her perfect pink manicured nails on her desk.
“Apparently not,” I mumbled.
“Correct.” Her straight blond hair brushed the tops of her shoulders as she tilted her head. She was dressed to kill in a little gold cocktail number.
“Are you going to tell me what’s wrong with it?” I asked, craning my neck to see my backside in her mirror. The gray dress fell to my ankles, paired with my only black flats. My hair was up in its usual messy brown bun.
“Thea, that whole dress is a disaster. The silhouette is all wrong for your waist to hip ratio, the darts in the top do nothing for your chest, and flats to a formal event?” She stood dramatically, chair legs squeaking as they slid across the tile floor. “I’m going to have to dress you.”
“No.”
“Yes,” she insisted.
“I don’t even want to go. I’m only there for you and the fancy food.”
“All the more reason to look good.” Her heels clicked across the tiles as she excitedly threw open her closet doors. “The Candace Lewis entourage has to be as hot as Candace Lewis herself.”
“I’m your entourage now?”
“Just get your butt over here.” She pulled out several things from the piles of clothes in her extensive wardrobe, pondering them for a moment before discarding them atop a nearby armchair.
“Where the hell is that designer gown I just bought?”
“The red one? Candie, that has, like, no back to it.”
“Yeah, that’s kind of the point.” She shoved herself between two large coats. “If I had your yoga-babe shoulder blades, I’d never cover them up.”
“I can barely hear you through all that fabric,” I said. “Isn’t something backless a little too cold for December?”
“Fashion is pain and all that. A-ha!” She emerged triumphant, holding up a long red gown. “Get that monstrosity off and put this on.”
“The things I do in the name of friendship.” I slipped my dress off and let it fall to the floor. Candace was on me in one fell swoop, sliding the red satin over my head and smoothing it down my body.
She stood back and eyed me from top to bottom.
“Gorgeous.” She clasped her hands together, flashing a wicked grin. “You look absolutely devastating. I’ll get some black pumps!”
She dove back into her closet.
Turning to the mirror, I felt devastating. The neckline plunged, but not quite out of my comfort zone. The satin squeezed every drop of curve it could from my hips, flaring out as it brushed the top of my thighs. It was hands down the most flattering garment I had ever worn.
“Here, put these on. Match it with this ruby lip gloss, and for god’s sake, Thea, run a brush through your hair.” Candace checked her reflection next to mine.
Biting my tongue, I pulled a brush through my hair and slipped the hair tie back over it once it was more neatly in place. “Happy?”
She squinted at me and stuck a decorative silver hair pin in it before nodding her approval. “Yes.”
With a laugh, I turned to the side and eyed the new ornament in the mirror. “What would I do without you?”
“You’d die a book hoarder in a dark basement apartment surrounded by antiques and tears. Now, let’s go.”
L’Atelier Rouge, or the Red Studio, was an oversized greenhouse in the middle of an elaborate garden. What was surprising was that it managed to stay that way, undeveloped as the offices and skyscrapers of Seattle went up around it. Once the workshop of the artist Marcel Dubois, it was painted—you guessed it—red. The studio had been preserved as a museum, with a modern art gallery built on its grounds. It was a classy place, for sure. Much classier than our ride anyway.
“How did you wangle an invitation again?”
I felt a little silly pulling up to a charity event in the same dented van I’d had since high school, but Candace insisted I drive so she could drink her weight in overpriced wine.
“I told you already.” Candie reapplied her lipstick in the mirror. “My boss couldn’t make it, so she gave her tickets to whoever gave her the best article this month.”
“I thought you were joking; Georgina hates you.”
“Hate is a strong word,” Candie said, snapping her lipstick lid closed. “And I’m her best journalist.” Candace opened her door and I followed her lead until we were both on the sidewalk in the frosty night air.
“
“The things I do in the name of friendship.” I slipped my dress off and let it fall to the floor. Candace was on me in one fell swoop, sliding the red satin over my head and smoothing it down my body.
She stood back and eyed me from top to bottom.
“Gorgeous.” She clasped her hands together, flashing a wicked grin. “You look absolutely devastating. I’ll get some black pumps!”
She dove back into her closet.
Turning to the mirror, I felt devastating. The neckline plunged, but not quite out of my comfort zone. The satin squeezed every drop of curve it could from my hips, flaring out as it brushed the top of my thighs. It was hands down the most flattering garment I had ever worn.
“Here, put these on. Match it with this ruby lip gloss, and for god’s sake, Thea, run a brush through your hair.” Candace checked her reflection next to mine.
Biting my tongue, I pulled a brush through my hair and slipped the hair tie back over it once it was more neatly in place. “Happy?”
She squinted at me and stuck a decorative silver hair pin in it before nodding her approval. “Yes.”
With a laugh, I turned to the side and eyed the new ornament in the mirror. “What would I do without you?”
“You’d die a book hoarder in a dark basement apartment surrounded by antiques and tears. Now, let’s go.”
L’Atelier Rouge, or the Red Studio, was an oversized greenhouse in the middle of an elaborate garden. What was surprising was that it managed to stay that way, undeveloped as the offices and skyscrapers of Seattle went up around it. Once the workshop of the artist Marcel Dubois, it was painted—you guessed it—red. The studio had been preserved as a museum, with a modern art gallery built on its grounds. It was a classy place, for sure. Much classier than our ride anyway.
“How did you wangle an invitation again?”
I felt a little silly pulling up to a charity event in the same dented van I’d had since high school, but Candace insisted I drive so she could drink her weight in overpriced wine.
“I told you already.” Candie reapplied her lipstick in the mirror. “My boss couldn’t make it, so she gave her tickets to whoever gave her the best article this month.”
“I thought you were joking; Georgina hates you.”
“Hate is a strong word,” Candie said, snapping her lipstick lid closed. “And I’m her best journalist.” Candace opened her door and I followed her lead until we were both on the sidewalk in the frosty night air.
“
“The things I do in the name of friendship.” I slipped my dress off and let it fall to the floor. Candace was on me in one fell swoop, sliding the red satin over my head and smoothing it down my body.
She stood back and eyed me from top to bottom.
“Gorgeous.” She clasped her hands together, flashing a wicked grin. “You look absolutely devastating. I’ll get some black pumps!”
She dove back into her closet.
Turning to the mirror, I felt devastating. The neckline plunged, but not quite out of my comfort zone. The satin squeezed every drop of curve it could from my hips, flaring out as it brushed the top of my thighs. It was hands down the most flattering garment I had ever worn.
“Here, put these on. Match it with this ruby lip gloss, and for god’s sake, Thea, run a brush through your hair.” Candace checked her reflection next to mine.
Biting my tongue, I pulled a brush through my hair and slipped the hair tie back over it once it was more neatly in place. “Happy?”
She squinted at me and stuck a decorative silver hair pin in it before nodding her approval. “Yes.”
With a laugh, I turned to the side and eyed the new ornament in the mirror. “What would I do without you?”
“You’d die a book hoarder in a dark basement apartment surrounded by antiques and tears. Now, let’s go.”
L’Atelier Rouge, or the Red Studio, was an oversized greenhouse in the middle of an elaborate garden. What was surprising was that it managed to stay that way, undeveloped as the offices and skyscrapers of Seattle went up around it. Once the workshop of the artist Marcel Dubois, it was painted—you guessed it—red. The studio had been preserved as a museum, with a modern art gallery built on its grounds. It was a classy place, for sure. Much classier than our ride anyway.
“How did you wangle an invitation again?”
I felt a little silly pulling up to a charity event in the same dented van I’d had since high school, but Candace insisted I drive so she could drink her weight in overpriced wine.
“I told you already.” Candie reapplied her lipstick in the mirror. “My boss couldn’t make it, so she gave her tickets to whoever gave her the best article this month.”
“I thought you were joking; Georgina hates you.”
“Hate is a strong word,” Candie said, snapping her lipstick lid closed. “And I’m her best journalist.” Candace opened her door and I followed her lead until we were both on the sidewalk in the frosty night air.
“
Shit! It’s freezing,” she complained.
“Fashion is pain,” I deadpanned.
Candace glared at me, then walked as quickly as her heels allowed toward the front door. Mercifully, the snow from the previous day had been cleared off the sidewalk, or I would have ended up on my butt in these shoes.
“Are you sure we’re dressed appropriately?” I eyed a stylish couple walking in—they reeked of money, and I could swear they were staring as they passed.
“Relax, I work in fashion journalism. I think I can pull together a couple evening wear looks.” Candace smoothed her skirt and took the last few steps to the door in excitement. She practically dragged me to the front door, where a man in a suit was collecting tickets and scratching names off his list. Candace ogled the other guests while I tried my best to turn invisible. Dying of embarrassment was starting to sound like a good option when the guy at the door stopped to rave loudly about Candie’s amazing boss and her tickets. I don’t know how he’d become such a fan of a magazine editor, but it didn’t look like we would get out of hearing about it until the lady behind us cleared her throat in annoyance, moving the process along.
Inside, the extravagance of it all sank in. Soft yellow light cast a golden glow throughout the room. Some wore jewelry worth probably more than my whole year’s paycheck. There was a champagne fountain in the center of a huge buffet table. Even the wait-staff was dressed in black tie as they glided around balancing trays of drinks. Somewhere a piano was playing seasonal music while couples danced across the marble floor.
“Candie, this is way out of my league. How am I supposed to talk to anyone here?” I whispered.
“Relax.” She sauntered over to a table loaded with refreshments, and I followed close behind. “You’re here for the food and the exhibits, right? Just grab a plate and enjoy the art. Actually, you should find a cute piece of ass and dance—you look absolutely delicious in this lighting.” Her eyes began to scan the crowd dangerously, and the very real threat of Candace plucking a dance partner for me was starting to creep into play.
“Dancing is unlikely, I’ll go with the food.” Giving her the side eye, I did have to admit the table looked delicious. “And you’re going to be where?”
“Rubbing elbows with the rich and famous.” She winked. “I’ll let you be a bridesmaid in my posh celebrity wedding once I land one of them.”
“Of course, I’ll be a bridesmaid in your very plausible celebrity wedding.”
“Have fun. Thanks for driving!” She blew me a kiss, then scooped a glass of champagne from a passing tray and waded into the crowd. Taking her advice, I turned my attention to the food.
And holy hell, the food.
Different kinds of fruit and cheese and meat were everywhere.
Pastries with complicated decorations were stacked high on por-celain trays. I had to stop myself from breaking off the head of a carved chocolate swan—tempting as it was, it was probably meant to be a display. Even the plates looked expensive, monogrammed with gold-leafed edges.
Loading up on appetizers I’d probably never have the chance to try again, I walked over to the art. Whoever put all this together had an eye for detail that I appreciated. The food was amazing, the soft piano was perfect, and the decor was stunning, but the art was terrible. Painting after painting of tortured gray blobs lined the walls of the main gallery. Maybe I didn’t know much about modern art, but this looked like something my two-year-old niece could have made at daycare.
Taking slow steps along the wall, pausing at each canvas to try to find something interesting, my mind wandered as aimlessly as my feet. After most of my snacks were gone, I looked around, trying to find Candie. From the safety of the wall, I watched her on the dance floor as she glued herself to a guy with too much gel in his hair. Between dances she socialized with anyone near enough to participate, asking them questions about their clothes in typical Candie fashion. She was reveling in the attention; I could see the victory in her eyes. Candace had two passions in her life: fashion and people. With a smile, I popped a miniature cherry tart into my mouth as I watched her. As different as we were, she was thriving in her element, and I was happy to be here when she wound down, enjoying the food and a quiet walk by myself through the gallery.
Candace spotted me against the wall and winked. Laughing, I got out of there before she could pull me onto the dance floor.
Moving out of the main room, onto a different exhibit, I pretended I was in a world-famous museum, surveying the treasures around me in the secret hours after the visitors were gone. It was the Dubois permanent collection, not one of the ever-changing special exhibitions that passed from gallery to gallery, but the namesake of L’Atelier Rouge. Most of the guests had probably seen these paintings before or didn’t care in the first place, but I’d never seen them in person. So, I walked and munched on crostini, regretting Candace’s choice of footwear. After a while I paused against the wall in a particularly dim corner to rest my feet, hide, and eat.
“Beautiful,” said a gravelly voice just over my shoulder. The sound startled me; I whirled around to see a man in a finely tailored suit standing there. His dark hair was long and pulled back, his emerald eyes filled with amusement. Broad but not bulky, tall and poised enough to join the art on the walls, this creature was walking sin.
“What?” I replied, swallowing.
“The paintings. Don’t you think so?”
Setting my plate on a table behind me, I hoped he hadn’t seen me stuffing my face. “Yes.”
His laugh was a low, comfortable sound that crawled up my back. “Much better than the gray eyesores out front, but I suppose that’s what’s ‘in’ now.”
I snorted and immediately felt the heat rush to my face, slapping a hand over my mouth.
“Is this your first time at L’Atelier Rouge?” he asked, bless-edly not laughing at my reaction. His low, confident tones were right up my alley.
“It is.” Was this man somehow the only other introvert at this party? Maybe, since he wasn’t in the main room with the rest of the guests. Or maybe he liked the atmosphere here. I know I did, that’s what drew me to museum studies.
“Marvelous. Would you enjoy a private tour?” A wicked playfulness danced across his lips.
“Do you know much about art?” I asked, approaching one of the paintings. A soft smile spread across my face, cautiously interested in where this was going.
“I should hope so.” His eyes glinted as he closed the distance I had just put between us. “I own the gallery. Please, call me Devin.”
“That explains it. I’m Thea, it’s nice to meet you. A tour would be lovely; I’m not as familiar with modern art, but this collection is beautiful.”
That seemed to take him by surprise. “Should I assume that you are familiar with other eras of art then?”
My eyes shifted to the nearest painting, a forested landscape.
Warmth crept up my neck in a telltale sign that I was dangerously close to becoming flustered, either from shyness or an attraction to Devin or both. “Only lightly compared to you, I’m sure. I just finished my history degree in the spring. Museum studies.”
Devin’s brow raised and he gave me a reassessing gaze. “How interesting, I’ve been giving some consideration lately to displaying more of the gallery’s history.”
“Considering the original studio still stands I think that’s a wonderful idea,” I said excitedly. “Do you have other remaining artifacts? Information about the original owner? Any surviving photographs would be an amazing addition to the displays. All of that would make an interesting— oh.” Biting the inside of my cheek to stop the enthusiastic babble I was spouting, I cleared my throat.
“A tour would be lovely.”
Devin’s polished composure dropped a bit in favor of an abrupt sound of amusement. “A conversation for another time, then.” His eyes moved from me to the painting I had stepped in
front of earlier, causing me to still as he leaned in slightly to nod in its direction.
“This series contains some of Dubois’s earliest landscapes, this one being one of the first uses in his entire body of work to harness this technique regarding water texture.”
The tour was more of a conversation, and it flowed easily between us. There was something captivating about the paintings that made one want to keep staring into them. Magical, whimsi-cal little details that drew your eye across the canvas in a natural flow. When my eyes weren’t caught by the paintings, I found them drifting toward Devin as we went, glancing at his strong, sculpted profile as he spoke about the history of the pieces.
He led me through the exhibit, showing me painting after painting with a comfortable curiosity between us until we reached the farthest wall. It was like I was in a trance—following his every word through the quiet gallery.
“Here, you can see the difference in his later work. For instance”—he made a sweeping motion with one arm—“this was one of Marcel’s last pieces. Near the end of his life, he claimed to see things in the forest. Fairy tales come to life.”
The painting was a dark line of trees behind rows of gorgeous pink lilies, the sun shining on the grass. Behind the branches, a blackness contrasted against the sunny field. Eerie eyes peered out from behind tree trunks. They were so imperceptible that I almost wouldn’t have noticed them had they not been pointed out to me. It struck me as odd, considering the realist nature of the other paintings.
Devin moved, and the gentle scent of his woodsy cologne brushed my nose. He stepped back and motioned to another painting. From this viewpoint, the paintings took on fantastical elements.
Wings, ears, eyes, all hidden as though Dubois himself were seeing them only from the corner of his vision. And Devin was invested in each painting, knowing the history of it, where the landscape sat, and when in his lifetime Dubois had painted it. He was fascinating to listen to, and my hungry curiosity only grew as we explored the collection.
“This one is a personal favorite.” The latest painting depicted a little girl holding a bouquet of wildflowers as big as she was. Her smile was missing a front tooth, and it wasn’t until I looked closer that it appeared her ears were pointed.
“What do you think?” He took one step closer to me, not uncomfortably close but near enough that I could feel the warmth of his body in the otherwise cool gallery. Letting out a slow breath, 9
I calmed my nervous attraction and did my best to focus on the subject matter.
“He was a skilled painter,” I said, stepping back and licking my dry lips. “If perhaps a bit eccentric in the end.”
Devin’s
low tones gave way to a burst of laughter that lit up my chest. Immediately I regretted stepping away when I could have stayed next to him instead.
“Eccentric is an excellent choice of word.” He straightened his silver tie, checked his watch, and offered me a hand. “I’m afraid I’ve prattled on enough. I appreciate that you allowed me the pleasure of a tour; few show much interest in Marcel anymore.”
“It was a pleasure.”
Devin took my own outstretched hand and kissed it gently. My arm flared to life as though it had been asleep until now, and our eyes locked. My focus on Devin and the paintings sharpened, as if I hadn’t been using my senses properly before. A hot coal of attraction landed in the pit of my stomach. “I assure you, the pleasure was all mine,” he mused, letting go of my hand. As my fingers fell, I clutched them absently over my beating heart.
“Thea!” Candace called from the other side of the room—wine glass in one hand, heels in the other. She was off-her-ass drunk.
“Oh no,” I groaned.
Devin chuckled, taking a step back. “I sincerely hope we have the opportunity to do this again sometime; I’d love to explore your ideas on how to go about organizing a few displays throughout the collection. I’ll leave you to your friend to enjoy the rest of the party.”
While I would rather have watched Devin go, the short blond spectacle in the doorway shouted, “Thea, dance with me!” then slurred, “Who’sh the hottie?”
“The owner. You’re drunk.”
“His ass should be under one of these damn spotlights,” she said, a little too loudly. Several heads turned our way from the main room behind her.
“How are you already this drunk? We’ve only been here for, like, thirty minutes.”
“Psh, it’s been hours. Look!” Candace held her phone to my face so I could see the time, and I gaped at the numbers across her lock screen.
“That’s impossible.” Pulling out my own phone, I swiped through to find the same time displayed.
“No, you’re impossible.” Candace swung her arm out, sharing a few drops of wine with the pristine white floor.
“Come on, Candie, we’re getting you home,” I mumbled, taking the wine glass from my drunk friend. “I think we’ve both had enough for tonight.”
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