Read Between The Lines: Business of Love 6

by Parker, Ali

  Nevertheless, I swiped.

  But I never committed and added anyone to the roster of people I was interested in. All the women were beautiful. That wasn’t the problem. The problem was I lost all my charm over messages. Via text, I came across all wrong. In person? Charming as hell.

  At least I would argue I was. Briar might have a few choice things to say about it.

  Finally, Wes arrived and spared me from my self-induced torture. He slid onto the stool beside me, chasing away a gathering flock of young women, and flagged down the bartender to order himself a beer.

  He glanced down at my phone screen. “Any matches?”

  “Hundreds.”

  Wes chuckled. “Why do you bother with those things if you never pick a girl you’re interested in?”

  I shrugged. “We all get our kicks in different ways, Wes. Don’t look down your nose at me.”

  “That’s my job as your best friend. You know, to remind you when you have your head so far up your own ass you’ve forgotten how to navigate the real world? Struggling artists unite.”

  “Neither of us have been a struggling artist in over a decade.”

  “I still feel like one,” Wes said earnestly.

  “Imposter syndrome never goes away, I suppose.”

  “Ain’t that a bitch?” Wes took a sip of the beer the bartender just poured, smacked his lips, and turned in his stool to face me. “So, how are things?”

  “Good.” That was true. Things were good. Steady. “I have a new model I’ve been working with who’s blowing my mind. Real beautiful girl. Classy but edgy, too. A divine combination when it comes to the canvas. You should see a picture of her.”

  “Aayla?”

  “Yes, have I told you about her?”

  “Several times. Not to mention Briar mentioned her yesterday when she came home from work. She thinks the girl has a thing for you.”

  I frowned pointedly at him. “I always forget your woman goes home and spills all my dirty laundry to you.”

  Wes chuckled. “It’s not dirty laundry. You should ask her out. Briar thinks she’d say yes.”

  “Briar can mind her own business.”

  “You tell her that,” Wes said. “I have no interest in provoking her inner dragon. I know full well what that looks like and how it feels and I’ve learned to stay well away from her wrath.”

  “Coward.”

  Wes snickered and took another swig of his beer. “What’s new besides models and paintings? All you ever talk about is work. There has to be something else going on in your life.”

  I dug through the filing cabinets of my brain for an interesting morsel. “Nope. Not a thing.”

  “You need to get out more. What do you do besides paint?”

  “Think about painting.”

  It was true. I had no family walking the earth to speak of. The closest thing to family in my life was Wes and Briar. On top of that, I had no interest in dating anymore because the previous relationships I’d had had all ended in not-so-glorious blunders.

  One girl drove her high-heeled shoe through one of my in-progress pieces and I’d felt that like a kick to the stomach. All because I’d told her I didn’t see our futures lining up after two months of dating.

  Most of my spare time was spent thinking about painting, painting in my studio, or drinking bourbon while I listened to old records at my home.

  “You need to get back in the saddle,” Wes said. “Look at me and Briar. Before she came along, I was content with my life revolving around writing. I thought fictional characters would be enough for me. But they weren’t, man. I didn’t realize until she walked into—”

  “That shitty little bar you like to write in. I know. You’ve told me several dozen times and you know what? Each recounting does not make it any more interesting than the first time I heard it.”

  “You’re just jealous,” Wes teased.

  The annoying thing was how right he was. I was jealous.

  I envied the way Briar looked at Wes and how she filled this dark, never-ending pit that used to consume him. I knew the Wes before her and the Wes after her, and he was an infinitely better man now than he ever used to be. She held him to a higher standard, one I doubted either of them knew was there, and he strived to meet it day in and day out. She kept him on his toes in the best way and she offered him something his books never could: a soft place to land at the end of a long day.

  The thought of going home to a beautiful woman after a long day in the studio with a sore back, aching neck, and paint under my nails was one I had often, but all it did was remind me of what I didn’t have.

  I caught Wes watching me out of the corner of his eye and cleared my throat. “Why would I be jealous? Look at me.” I gestured down at myself in a sweeping motion. “I won the lottery.”

  Wes scoffed. “You’re never going to meet your dream girl locked up in your gallery. You have to get out there. Smell the roses, so to speak. Take a walk on the wild side.”

  “Please stop quoting middle-age crisis bullshit at me while I’m surrounded by so much liquor.”

  Wes nodded pointedly at my empty glass. “Speaking of which, are you having another?”

  Who was I to say no?

  I caught the bartender’s attention and we ordered another round. Wes opted for another beer while I stayed in my lane with the bourbon. I had an empty home to get to later tonight and the liquor in my belly would keep me warm enough to convince me that I didn’t need the company of another soul to feel complete.

  I cringed at my own inner dialogue.

  Was I really this desperate? Had I missed all the red flags that I was growing lonely and needed a companion?

  “Maybe I should just get a small dog,” I muttered to myself.

  “Sorry?” Wes asked, his brow furrowed. “Did you say—”

  “Nothing. Just talking to myself.”

  “I won’t be seen out in public with you if you buy a handbag to carry your teacup Chihuahua around with you everywhere you go. I know artists are eccentric but that’s too much, even for me, and I spend sixty percent of my time in my own head concocting fictional worlds and people.”

  “I’m not getting a dog,” I said dryly.

  “Good.”

  “Maybe just a cat.”

  “You’re losing it.”

  “And you have a front row seat,” I said before throwing back a mouthful of bourbon and turning my back to the bar. Plenty of available women milled about, and more than a handful of them shot curious glances my way, but the thought of walking up to one of them and trying to start any flicker of conversation made me want to crawl in a hole and disappear.

  Not because I was intimidated to talk to women. No, that wasn’t it at all. I loved talking to women. I loved making women laugh. I loved teasing them, letting them tease me, flattering them. You name it. I loved it.

  I just couldn’t wrap my head around starting over with someone whose intentions I could never know. How could I trust a stranger?

  Wes had and it worked out just fine for him. However, it took a series of relationships before Briar for him to find the right girl. Maybe that was all I had to do. Keep going. Keep sorting through the wrong people to find the right person.

  Still, nobody in this room felt right.

  Chapter 5

  Nora

  I craned my head all the way back until the sofa pillows were pressed up against both ears and I tilted the nearly empty chip bag toward my mouth. Salt and vinegar crumbs poured into my mouth, over my chin, and down the front of my shirt. It was as I was dusting them off my cleavage that the front door opened.

  I twisted around as Julie walked in.

  My heart sank. I’d been expecting Grace, who’d spent the whole day out of the house checking in on all her daycare centers, leaving me to my own devices.

  Today, those devices were staying in my jammies all day and not parting from the sofa.

  Julie smiled as she closed the door with one hip and struggl
ed to lock the handle. She had several brown paper grocery bags balanced in her arms.

  “Hey.” Julie’s voice reminded me of a radio ad. Chipper, uplifting, distinctly feminine. “I’m glad you’re home. I was going to cook us all dinner.”

  “How thoughtful,” I said as I untangled myself from the fleece blanket that had been wrapped around my legs for the past four hours while I binge-watched episodes of the Bachelor I’d missed during my travels. “Let me help you with the groceries.”

  The room tipped and spun when I stood up.

  Julie watched from the kitchen where she’d begun unpacking the grocery bags. “Do you take iron pills?”

  I gave my head a shake as the dizzy spell passed as quickly as it had come. “No.”

  “You should consider it. It might help with the dizziness when you stand up.”

  Oh yay, she’s a know-it-all, too.

  “I’ve just been a lazy waste of space all day,” I told her. “That’s the first time I’ve moved in almost four hours.”

  Julie laughed a little nervously.

  While I helped her unpack the groceries, I wondered if she was equally unsure of me as I was of her. She’d been living in this townhouse with Grace for eight months before I came home, which was plenty of time to make a place feel like a home. She and Grace also had a lot in common, so I didn’t doubt they’d spent a great deal of time together and already created some good memories. Was me coming home disrupting her routines?

  Did I care?

  Julie fetched a pan from a cupboard and poured olive oil in it before setting to dicing vegetables. I offered to help her cook, and she politely declined.

  “You could pour us some wine though,” she said with a sneaky little smile. “It’s been a day and nothing makes me feel better than a glass of red when all is said and done. Or a bottle.”

  Ha. Ha. A jokester, too.

  I poured us each a healthy glass of wine. Maybe the liquor would improve her sense of humor while simultaneously making me more open to receiving her jokes. We both took a sip and watched each other awkwardly over the rims of our glasses.

  Up until now, Grace had always been there to be a buffer between us. Now that it was just the two of us, things felt stiff and forced.

  I cleared my throat. “So, you’re a marriage counselor. That’s cool.”

  “Is it?” Julie dropped a handful of diced onions into the pan and turned on the element. “Most of the time when people find out what I do, they don’t want to talk around me because they think I’m dissecting every little thing they say.”

  “And are you?”

  She shot me a cheeky smile. “Sometimes. But most of the time, I leave my work where it belongs: at the office. There’s a lot of mental load that comes with what I do, so when I check out for the night I really check out. When I’m socializing, I’m not in work mode.”

  “But you like your work?”

  “Oh, I love it,” Julie said as she diced red and green peppers. Those too were added to the pan. “It took a lot of work to get to this point but it was well worth it. I help people every day. I get a great deal of satisfaction out of seeing couples thrive. I can’t imagine myself doing something else. Is that how you feel about traveling?”

  I blinked, surprised at her question and how relatable her words were when she spun it in favor of travel. “Yes, kind of. Once I started, I couldn’t look back. I’ve been back in New York for what, three and a half days? I’m already planning my next trip and looking at flights and hostels when I have no right to because I don’t even have a job yet.”

  “Something will come along,” Julie said. “All you have to do is catch it when it does. Right?”

  “Sure sounds simple when you put it like that.”

  Julie began stirring the vegetables as the heat intensified and they started to cook. “Well, from where I’m standing, you seem like a desirable employee. You’re well traveled and therefore wise and cultured. You’re inquisitive. Witty. Curious. Intelligent.”

  “Why are you blowing smoke up my ass?”

  Julie laughed. It reminded me of wind chimes and love ballads from the fifties. Did her perfection know no end? “I’m hoping if you don’t like my cooking, you’ll lie to me about it.”

  “I like any and all cooking.”

  “Noted.”

  Grace arrived shortly before dinner was served and I wasn’t sure who was more grateful for her presence, me or Julie, who immediately poured a third glass of wine.

  Grace leaned against the kitchen island and vented about her day of work driving between all three daycare centers all over Manhattan. She dished about drama between colleagues and seethed about how the same bullshit was still going on between the same employees.

  “Just fire them,” I said.

  “Or hire a conflict resolution specialist to come in one evening and get them to air their issues out once and for all,” Julie said.

  Grace swirled her wine around. “Now that’s not a terrible idea.”

  I brooded as the house began to fill with the rich aroma of Julie’s cooking. I could already tell it was going to be delicious when I’d secretly been hoping she was a lost cause in the kitchen. There had to be something she wasn’t good at.

  “How was your day, Nora?” Grace turned her attention to me.

  I swallowed a mouthful of wine. “Fine.”

  “Any luck on the job front?”

  “No,” I said, shaking my head. “But I’ll be back at it tomorrow morning bright and early.” By bright and early, I meant around ten o’clock.

  Grace gave me a reassuring smile. “I have a good feeling something is around the corner for you.”

  “If it’s not an airfare ticket, I don’t want it.”

  “Ticket!” Julie spun from the stove with the spatula still in one hand. “I completely forgot! A client of mine gave me—hold on.” She came around the island and gave me the spatula. “Can you stir those so they don’t stick to the pan? Thank you.”

  I went to my task of stirring the frying vegetables and watched over my shoulder as Julie opened her purse, a designer handbag of the likes I could never dream of owning so I rolled my eyes at it, and pulled out three tickets.

  She held them up like they were worth something of great value. “A client gave me these art gallery passes today after her session. She won a bunch of tickets at a raffle. The gallery is hosting a fundraiser and all the proceeds go to high school art programs. My client thought I might like this guy’s work. Apparently, his pieces are quite beautiful. I for one could use some new artwork in my office. Would you ladies like to join me?”

  Grace plucked a ticket from Julie’s hand. “I’m in. My home office could use a facelift. Nora?”

  I stirred the vegetables and looked back and forth between the two women. “I hardly have the patience to stay in the shower long enough to condition my hair. I don’t think art galleries are for me.”

  “Oh, come on,” Grace pouted. “It’ll be something fun the three of us can do together.”

  “Some of the work might surprise you,” Julie added. “My client isn’t much of an art fan either but she raved about this guy’s stuff. Apparently he mostly paints portraits. Nude portraits.”

  “Oh yay,” I said dryly. “Expensive porn for the walls that doesn’t move. Sounds great.”

  Grace rolled her eyes. “Poor sport.”

  “I don’t have a job. Why would I want to go to a gallery and be reminded of how much money everyone else has? The price tags will be obscene. Guaranteed. Artists are pretentious dick wads who always overvalue their work.”

  Grace and Julie exchanged a look.

  “I’m just saying,” I muttered.

  Julie relieved me from my post by the stove and I shuffled back to my spot at the island, where she’d left the third ticket. I picked it up and turned it over in my hands. “Walker Vice,” I mused as I read the artist’s name aloud. “His name even sounds pretentious. You can’t tell me I’m wrong about that o
ne.”

  “It has a bit of flair to it,” Grace conceded.

  “Well, his gallery is where I’ll be on Friday evening,” Julie said. She dumped a pot of boiled spaghetti noodles into the pan with the vegetables and added a splash more oil, followed by salt, pepper, and a light cream sauce she’d whipped up. The whole house started to smell like an Italian restaurant.

  Within another fifteen minutes, we’d topped off our glasses of wine and brought bowls full of steaming pasta to the dining room table, where Julie lit a candle between us and said, “Bon appétit.”

  I twirled the noodles around my fork and willed myself not to like Julie’s cooking. I knew before it touched my tongue that my resolve would fail. The creamy pasta tickled my taste buds and had me diving back into the bowl for more.

  Grace praised Julie’s cooking and looked expectantly for me to pile on the bandwagon.

  “It’s delicious,” I said as I dabbed at my lips with a napkin. “What can’t you do, Julie?”

  She was one of those women who seemed too good to be true. If my parents had been here, I knew without a shadow of a doubt they’d have already made comments under their breath that I should try to be more like my new roommate. She dressed tastefully and presented herself well. She was a wiz in the kitchen, cared about art, was invested in the lives of other people in her pursuit to do good in her career, and could afford expensive bottles of wine I only ever got to taste when someone else bought them.

  Yes, my parents would have been very happy indeed if I was a little more like Julie.

  Chapter 6

  Walker

  Wes whistled and crossed his arms over his chest. The painting of Aayla sat in front of him, the light white draping I usually covered it with pulled back and tucked over the right-hand corner.

  “This is one of your best pieces yet,” Wes said. His eyes roamed over the canvas. “She’s a beautiful woman. This is Aayla, right? The model Briar has been talking about?”

  I nodded. “She’ll be here tonight for the fundraiser.”