by Cynthia Dane
So now they only ribbed each other for the sport of it.
“Tell you what.” Zack smacked his hand against the wall. “I’ll stop doing loud art when you stop having loud sex at four in the morning. Deal?”
Kathryn spared him one last fake smile before sauntering down the hallway. “You first, Feldman!” she said over her shoulder. Zack did not mind checking out her ass in her blue skirt as she headed toward the elevator.
“You’re lucky I don’t entertain ladies in my studio!” he called after her. Kathryn smashed the elevator’s down button. “Could be as loud as you! Wait until you’re home! Scare your cat! Scare your boyfriend with my manly, manly prowess!”
That wave turned into a middle finger the moment the elevator doors closed.
“Ooh, baby.” Zack continued to his personal apartment one door down. “Let me sit on it while you spin it around.” He’d pay to hear her offer it, honestly.
Zack barely had the chance to change out of his work clothes and start making a sandwich when his phone rang. It was Terry, his agent.
“Hey, my man!” Terry was the perfect clash of southern Californian bullshit and New England, well, bullshit. “How’s those new projects coming? The Hotel Galleria and Prague Efforts are already blowing me up asking about you. That last tour we did made people cry!”
Zack slathered mayo on his sourdough bread. “First of all, you’re full of shit. Second of all, I’m right where I was three days ago when you asked me this same question. Was working on something, but it ended up in, uh, pieces.”
“I don’t want to hear that, Zachary. I want to hear that we’re going to deflower virgins and reawaken the libidos of old grandmothers when we unveil your next piece.”
“Thanks, Terry, for your inspiring words.”
Zack hung up on him. If that’s all Terry had to say, then he had no need to say it. Rather eat my sandwich in silence. He better turn off his phone to make sure.
The day was nice enough to sit in his nook and take in the sights of the city. Zack had perfected the best places to draw inspiration. Out on the water. Down on the marina. On his bike going down the rural highways while taking in the fresh mountain air. Here in his nook where he could soak up the vibe of a city on a Sunday.
Why in the world wasn’t it helping him come up with more ideas? He had already thrown aside the idea about the siren. Without a full piece of marble, it was worthless. He needed to figure something else to do with two pieces, one of them probably smaller than the other after he was done getting rid of the chipped edges.
If there was one thing Zachary did best, it was picking subjects. A good subject spoke both on behalf of his artistic soul and to the masses that bought his pieces and drooled over them in galleries around the world. Zach was one of the privileged few who made enough money to fund his passion while also having the talent to back it up. His family name and money got him into art school and a trust fund the size of all nine muses put together, but it was his God-given artistic abilities that kept him in galleries and receiving rave reviews in the media.
So what was his next target? What did his soul call to next? Who was going to change his life and his career?
Damnit. His mind kept going back to her. The woman in the café. The woman with the ponytail. The woman in flannel and denim shorts. The woman flipping through a Japanese dictionary like she knew how to use it.
She was enough beauty, enough enigmas to make him more curious about her. But not enough to inspire a whole new collection from that one meeting.
It wasn’t even a meeting. Hell, she still might not know he ever existed, assuming the barista never followed through with his sketch. I should have kept it. Ugh. Dumbass over here. Dumbass with his turkey and mayo sandwich on sourdough bread.
Zack had two options going forward. He could make her his new muse. Or he could date her. There was no in between when it came to women.
First, he had to find out who she was.
Chapter 4
Rachel wasn’t getting much work done at Opal’s Tuesday afternoon. She was too consumed with the tabs she kept open in Google Chrome, each one of them mocking her financial status.
One of her student loans – the biggest, nastiest one – had run out of deferment and was coming back into repayment. $300 a month for a stupid loan her mother conned her into taking out before her senior year of college. A loan her mother had promised to pay if Rachel in turn promised to finish her degree.
Turned out her mother couldn’t pay it after all.
I can’t afford this… Rachel barely broke even between her translation business and articles she wrote online. Content mills. Blog post clients. It cobbled together every month to pay the rent on her studio apartment, her other student loans, and the food she put into her stomach. There were no savings. There was hardly any wiggle room for an extra hundred a month, let alone three!
I need to get more work. Or get a job. Ha! Getting a job! Yeah, right. Every time Rachel attempted employment, she either met a million dead ends or was promptly laid off before the first three months were up. No matter what, she ended up on the translation grind again.
The only time she had a “real” job since graduating six years before was when she spent her first year out of college teaching English in Japan. She had come back after her first contract was up because she couldn’t stand teaching. Or children, for that matter.
So why was the final tab on her browser opened to the latest English conversation schools hiring? Desperation. Bitter, bitter desperation.
Rachel closed out of them all with a sigh. She needed to get back to translating a batch of song lyrics a band’s super fan demanded to understand. At least it wasn’t Japanese family law.
She didn’t know what to do when she glanced out the large window and saw a man peering through the glass.
What the… Oh, no. It was him.
The hottie who had drawn her picture!
There he was, forehead pressed against the frosty glass, eyes peering through the O in Opal’s. His large hands shielded his eyes from the light behind him. The light that illuminated his tight, black T-shirt and those ridiculous biceps.
Rachel was compelled to close her netbook. Two seconds later, she wondered why.
Mr. Hot Artist sauntered into the café with an extra skip in his step. Knee-length khaki cargo shorts – something that would look awful on any other man, but somehow only made him look more effortlessly hot! – brought him over to the counter, where he quickly surveyed the case while taking out his wallet. Parvati went up to him so quickly that she almost knocked the tip jar over.
Rachel couldn’t hear what they were saying. But Parvati grinned like she was winning the lottery, and Mr. Hot Artist removed his sunglasses so he could read one of the small menus on the counter. He gestured to the statue. Parvati shook her head and shrugged.
One minute later, she was making another latte and pulling a chocolate chip cookie out of the case. Cash exchanged hands and fluttered into the tip jar. The man took his cookie, pocketed his wallet, and…
Sat at the empty table next to Rachel’s.
Her heartrate doubled.
Should she say something? Thank him for the picture currently at the bottom of her mail stack? Should she fix her hair? Should she run home screaming because she had no idea what the fuck to do?
Damn, he smelled so good. That aftershave was illegal in some countries!
Rachel ultimately decided to play it cool. This meant staring at her netbook while completely forgetting the song she was supposed to be translating. Who could think in any language except gdskflsjklgjklsjklb! right now?
“Oh, damn,” came a droll voice beside her. “Just realized this cookie isn’t gluten free.”
She caught the man’s eyes. Her stomach did a backflip and her poor pelvis seized in delight. Shit, you slut, calm down!
“Would you like it?”
“Uh…” Rachel pointed to her chest, as if she couldn’t believe this man wou
ld ever want to give her a cookie. “Excuse me?”
“Sorry, bit sudden, isn’t it?” That cool smile implied this man knew exactly what he was doing. “I said that I accidentally bought a cookie that wasn’t gluten free. I’m sensitive to gluten. Would you like to have this cookie instead? I don’t want it going to waste.”
If you take it back up, Parvati would be more than happy to eat that cookie on her lunch break. In truth, Rachel was more than happy to eat it as well. She loved the cookies at Opal’s. The baked goods were one of many shining achievements that kept her coming back two or three times a week.
“No thanks.”
“Oh. Sorry for bothering you.”
You idiot! Rachel was already chastising herself as she stared at meaningless Japanese kanji on her screen. How fucking dare you turn this guy down? For anything?
Right. She was supposed to be celibate until the end of August. Besides, this man was so out of her league that there was no chance in hell he was actually flirting with her. That was so absurd that it might as well make her laugh. Except she couldn’t laugh. Her words, her humor were so choked in her throat that there was no hope in hell that she would be able to laugh right now.
“Thanks, though,” she squeaked, refusing to look this guy in the eyes again.
Unfortunately for Rachel, it was impossible to ignore him and go back to her work. It didn’t matter how much she cranked up the heavy metal on Spotify. It also didn’t matter if she turned her body away from him, completely blocking him out of her sight. No matter what she did, he was still there, attention on her.
If he had never drawn a picture of her, Rachel would have assumed that this guy never even noticed her. But he had drawn her. He had stared at her long enough to create a likeness of her in the span of half an hour.
It made her tremble. For all the wrong reasons.
But nothing made her actually jump out of her seat like when that man pulled out the chair across from her and sat in it as if it were his God given right to do so.
“So here’s the thing,” he said. Rachel yelped in surprise, earbuds dropping to her keyboard and pen falling to the floor. She bent down to pick it up, but it was too late. The man had picked it up for her, and now his fingerprints were all over her favorite pen.
She snatched it out of his grasp, heart still racing.
“Can I… help you?”
“You can, actually.” He folded his arms on the table, careful to not mess up her arrangement of folders, papers, pens, and dictionaries. “I think you can help me with my work. Barring that, I think you should go out with me.”
Rachel’s mouth dropped open. “W… what?”
“Oh, sorry.” He held his hand in front of her. “Zachary Feldman. Heard of me?”
Rachel did not catch on that she was supposed to shake his hand and left him hanging. Instead, she slowly shook her head, mouth still agape.
He snatched his hand back. “All right. So not everyone knows me. That’s fine.” He folded his arms again. “Long story short, I’m an artist. I drew you the other morning because I thought you had a striking profile worth capturing on paper. Didn’t know you would suddenly fuel some ideas for new work. So what do you say? Wanna be my model?”
Rachel was trapped between disbelief and utter, utter hilarity.
What else could she do but start cracking up?
Her laughter burst before she had the chance to contain it. One moment Rachel Taylor was about to lose her shit because this beautiful man was giving her the kind of tingles she did not need in her life, and the next? He was being such a fucking charlatan that all she could do was laugh.
He sat back, that charismatic smile faltering. “Are you all right?”
Rachel’s hands clapped together in utter glee. “That’s rich!” she cried. I think I’m honestly gonna have tears streaming down my face! “Be your muse… or go out with… woo!” She forced herself to calm down, if only to spew the words bubbling behind her lips. “That’s a new one for me, mister. Does that usually work, though? What’s the success rate on that?”
He propped his chin up on his hand, leaning toward the right. “I don’t follow.”
“Come on! I bet this is your shtick, right? Draw a picture of a woman, then ask her out, because how can I say no if you’ve taken the time to draw a picture of me?”
“So you did get my picture?” Zack looked back at Parvati, stealthily watching them from behind the cold case. “Was worried she never got around to it.”
Rachel flicked her pen between her anxious fingers. “So go on, tell me. What’s the success rate of this? I wanna know which side to err on.”
“Look.” Zack showed her the breadth of his palm. That’s… a sturdy hand you’ve got there. The kind of hand Rachel liked to fantasize about. Touching her. Holding her. Grabbing her tits and letting her ride those fingers until she came so hard she no longer knew if she were home or not. Been a long time since I had a zinger like that. “It’s not a shtick. I’m 100% serious.” He scoffed. “Rather unbelievable, though. If I had tried that on any other woman, I’m pretty sure it would have worked. Ah, that’s it.” He grinned. “You’re a lesbian. It’s the only explanation.”
Rachel rolled her eyes. “None of your business.”
“Oh, so you’re bisexual?”
“Excuse me?” She blushed.
“If you were a lesbian, you would have confirmed it. If you were straight, you would have had some words about me calling you a lesbian. They always do.” He cleared his throat. “Therefore, you must be bisexual.”
Rachel bit her lip. No comment on that.
“So that means I have a 50% chance with you.”
“Not sure that’s how that math works.”
“It is now.”
“I guess you’re totally straight then?” Rachel could play this game, even with a total stranger. Especially with a total stranger. “Because only a straight man would have those kinds of balls to be so blatant with a woman he’s just met.”
Zack placed both elbows on the table and peered at her between steepled fingers. His pursed lips betrayed how serious he really was. “We haven’t just met,” he said with conviction. “You’ve been haunting my dreams and artistic mind since I first saw you Saturday morning.”
Rachel guffawed again.
“You think I’m lying? Go on. Tell me your name.”
“Why?”
“First of all, I already told you my name. We should be on equal footing.” Zack put his arms down again. “And if you tell me your name, I’ll be able to explain to you why it’s fate that we’ve crossed paths in this humble café.”
Rachel leaned back in her seat, drew her legs up, and cocked her head to the side. “Okay,” she said, ponytail flopping against her shoulder. “My name is Rachel. Generic enough for you?”
“On the contrary,” Zack was quick to say with that same serious countenance from a few moments ago, “It explains everything.”
“Why?”
“Because Rachel is my favorite character from the Bible. See? It’s fate.”
“Really.” Rachel kicked her legs off the chair. She didn’t miss Parvati sending them another curious glance after taking care of her latest customer. “The Bible. Your favorite character. You’re kidding me, right?”
“Nope. I did my time in Sunday school. Rachel was the coolest one. So that must mean you’re cool, too.”
Rachel laughed, giving herself over to disbelief. “What’s your deal? Seriously.”
“My serious deal?” Zack gave her a look that implied he had no idea what to do with her. “I’ve already told you what I want.”
“What is that?”
“Your face representing my next collection.” He leaned in closer, voice dropping to the sorts of levels that usually led Rachel to making the worst decisions. “Or your beautiful body in my bed. Your pick.”
Rachel pressed her lips as tightly together as possible. How else was she going to hide how giddy that made her feel?
Me? In your bed? Was this guy serious? This hot guy who was so seriously out of her league that she felt like she was on the other end of some gross joke, if she indulged in her cynical side? “Fuck,” she finally said.
“I was rather hoping you’d choose that option.”
“No!” Rachel knocked her empty teacup over, the wet teabag flying onto the hardcover of her Japanese dictionary. She hurried to remove it and wipe away the moisture left behind. “I mean… no, not that.”
“So you’ll be my model?”
Rachel was getting dizzy. “Can’t be both, huh?”
“Not yet. Complicates things.”
“Oh, of course.”
Zack wagged his finger at her. “You’re trouble. I can tell that about you.” He flashed another smile. “I like that in a woman.”
Okay, Rachel needed to start thinking. Not only about what this man actually wanted from her, but whether or not it even made sense to entertain him. There was no way he meant what he said about wanting anything more serious than a one-off date with her. Even better if he could get in her pants, then send her packing.
The Rachel of a month ago would have agreed, if only to get laid with a hot guy, consequences be damned.
This Rachel, however? Had other priorities.
“Sorry. I’m not interested in being anybody’s model.” So insulting, to joke about her being model material. Another tool in this guy’s toolbox on his quest to getting into women’s pants. “I’m also not into casual sex. So…”
“So?”
Rachel started packing up her things. Zack looked on with only the slightest bit of panic on his face. Not going the way you thought it would? That only made things more amusing for Rachel. Anything she could do to knock this guy out. “Guess that means we can only be friends, Mr. Feldstein.”
“Feldman,” he quickly corrected.
“Right, well…” Rachel wrapped her bag across her chest. “I gotta get going. Guess you know where to find me if you wanna be my friend.”