by Twyla Turner
“I don’t know.”
“Oh, come on, Ryn! Do something selfish and reckless for once in your damn life! And then tell me all about it.” She grins at me mischievously.
“You’re crazy.” I shake my head but smile genuinely for the first time in days.
“Oui. But I am also right.”
“Eh…” I shrug.
“Just be open to it. To the possibilities.”
~~~
Raquel’s words stay with me for days after. She also gave me Etienne’s number to call him, if I ever do decide I’m ready. I haven’t used it, but it has been taunting me from my refrigerator door where it hangs from a magnet that displays the Nice skyline.
I finally pick up my phone. I dial only half the number before my nerves get the best of me. I slam the phone down and then grab my purse and floppy hat instead. I have to get out the house for a little while. Raquel is out of town at the moment, so I decide to do lunch on my own.
I walk down to Cours Saleya, a famous market street closed off to cars. I choose one of the numerous cafés that spill out onto the brick paved street. I decide on a table outside where I can people watch in all directions, facing the red and blue stripped canopies covering the vendors and their wares.
The day is bright and sunny with a cool sea breeze coming off the Mediterranean only a block away. The perfect day to heal what’s been aching.
I look at the menu and smile as I spy something that can always boost my mood. Pizza. The restaurant has a French version of a Margherita pizza. My taste buds are already salivating. After I order, I sit back and let the breeze soothe me.
The wind picks up a bit, sending my hat flying through the air. I lurch forward and start after it. I bend down to grab for it when the wind sends it skittering a few more feet. It hits a pair of masculine boots walking forward. A paint-stained hand reaches down, and I follow it up as he rises.
As my eyes connect with intense green ones, I wonder if Raquel is hiding behind a bush laughing at me. Of all the people. It’s as if fate blew my hat straight into his hands. As if everything and everyone, excluding my daughter, is pushing us together.
I straighten up awkwardly. I never feel awkward until I’m around him. He brings out all of my insecurities.
“Ryn, bonjour.” He says softly as he hands me the hat.
“Bonjour, Etienne.”
“How are you? Is everything better with Kari?”
“I’m fine. I…uh…have to get back to my table. I have lunch coming.” I point over to the table.
“May I join you?”
I want to tell him, no, but I also don’t want to be rude.
“Uh…sure.”
He follows me back over to my table just as the waiter comes out with my pizza. Etienne orders a sandwich, and the waiter disappears again. I hesitate to eat as he watches me intently.
“Please, eat. Do not let your food go cold waiting for me.”
“Could you not stare at me then?”
I couldn’t help it. It had to be said. The boy has a staring problem.
“I am not sure that is possible. But I could try.” He smiles at me and tucks his hair behind his ear.
He’s wearing it down and wavy today. As always, my fingers twitch with the instinct to reach out and bury them in it.
“So, is everything well with Kari?”
“No. She left that same night before you dropped me off. Now, she refuses to speak to me or return my calls.” I look down at my pizza, no longer in the mood to eat. “Thank you for the beautiful flowers, by the way.”
“You’re welcome. I wanted to apologize for causing you so much trouble. I truly am so sorry, Ryn. It was not my intention to hurt either of you.” He reaches across the table and clasps my hand.
My whole arm tingles as if it’s coming back to life after being numb.
“But at the same time, I do not know that I would take it back.” He confesses as he continues. “I cannot lie. I want you more than any woman I have ever met. Your daughter is beautiful. Much like you. But you are all I want. And I cannot find it in me to stay away from you.”
The accent, the eyes, the hair blowing in the breeze, I can’t handle all of it.
“I-I don’t know what to say.”
“Say you will go on a date with me.”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’re entirely too young, Etienne.”
“This is why you have been saying no?”
“Yes. I’m way too old to be messing around with a man as young as you.”
“This is ridiculous.” He waves away my argument. “I am not a boy. I am nearly thirty years old. Since when is that a boy?”
“Uh…never.” I sigh. “To be honest, it’s not that you’re too young. It’s that I’m too old. You’ve probably been with all of these young women with amazing young bodies. Their skin is still tight and firm. I’m not a sagging bag of bones or anything, but not everything is as tight as it once was. My body isn’t as slim as it once was. I just feel that you’d be much more attracted to someone your own age.”
“Can I paint you?”
“What?”
His change of subject jars me.
“I would like to paint you. And when I am finished and show you the way I see you, maybe then you will go on a date with me.”
“O-Okay.”
“Good. Tomorrow?”
“Uh…sure.”
“I will come pick you up after lunch.”
I have no idea why I’m agreeing to this. Maybe it has to do with the fleeting memory of how electric his lips felt against mine for those few seconds. I’d be lying to myself if I said I didn’t want more of that.
I nod in acknowledgment.
“Good. Now eat.” He nods towards my forgotten pizza.
He watches me shakily pick up a slice and bring it to my lips. I bite into the pizza, not that I taste it. My heart is pounding, and my stomach is fluttering like crazy as it sits in my throat. I was less nervous flying to a foreign country to start a new life.
The waiter comes out with Etienne’s sandwich, finally breaking his stare. I watch him bite into it and then lick his ridiculously full lips for wayward crumbs. I never thought a man while eating could be sexy. Then again, it seems as if everything he does is sexy. His sexuality oozes from him. Maybe it’s his downturned, bedroom eyes. Long hair. Overly full lips. Easy gait. Or the way he moves his hands. As if he’s always painting or creating music on his guitar. Maybe it’s all of it packed into one six-foot-one, lean-muscled frame.
“Do you like it here,” he asks between bites.
“Yeah, I do. A lot.”
“Many Americans find the French to be rude. This does not bother you?”
“No. I don’t think you are rude at all. I find that if I attempt to speak French, attitudes shift. But I guess I can see why our cultures clash sometimes. We Americans expect everyone to speak our language and the French love their language. Though I can see why. It’s beautiful and sensual. Even when people are arguing it sounds sexy. How can anyone stay mad at each other here?” I smile and chuckle slightly.
“There she is.” He says, looking at me with a secret smile.
“There’s who?”
“You.”
I scrunch my face, giving him a skeptical look.
“You hide yourself. Or maybe you do not know yourself. But when you relax, your personality comes out.”
“I don’t know, maybe it’s because I hate small talk. You know. ‘How’s the weather?’ ‘What do you do?’ ‘Do you come here often?’ That kind of thing. It’s awkward and only scratches the surface of a person.”
“Hmm… So, that means you like to know a person on a deeper level and for them to know you deeper. Yet you hide from me.” His eyes penetrate me.
I stare down at my pizza before responding.
“You’re different. You make me uncomfortable.”
“Why?”
I take a deep b
reath and blurt it out.
“Because you have these eyes that seem to pick up on everything. Because it feels like you know me better than I know me and that’s uncomfortable. I might do something out of character around you, and you’d know it before I do. It’s like you’re waiting for me to… Oh! I don’t know how to describe it exactly.” I finish with a frustrated wave of my hand.
“Then maybe you should relax and let it happen.” He stops and analyzes me for a few nerve-wracking moments. “You do not appear to be the type of person who is fake. I think you are very honest.”
“I try to be.”
“Then do you not think that if you say or do something that is normally out of character that it is not an act? That it is who you really are? Do you not want to meet her? The woman you really are? The woman who is free?”
He finishes his sandwich as he lets me marinate in his theory. The scary part is that he’s actually right. I’ve met men my age and older who were never this insightful.
I speak quietly, “I want to meet her.”
“Then I will introduce you to her tomorrow. One o’clock.”
He gets up and reaches into his pocket. He pulls out enough money to cover both of our meals. I look up at him as he steps closer to me. He reaches out his hand and strokes a finger down my jawline.
“Tomorrow.”
He turns and walks away, leaving me a jumble of nerves and trembling skin.
Chapter 9
My nerves haven’t gotten any better in the twenty-four hours since we made plans for him to paint me. My hands shake as I bathe, as I dress in an off-the-shoulder yellow sundress, and as I apply light makeup. A little foundation to smooth out my skin tone, mascara to make my eyes pop, and some lip gloss. I can’t even attempt eyeliner with the way my hands tremble. I nearly poke my eyes out with the mascara brush multiple times as it is.
Memories of the nude women Etienne has painted flip through my mind like a picture book. Does he expect me to get naked? Should I be offended if he doesn’t? He already stares at me a lot. Can I really handle those penetrating eyes studying me as he paints me? I have so many questions.
I hear the rumble of an engine below, and I know it’s him. He doesn’t honk a horn or yell up. He just waits patiently, like he’s been doing since we met. I grab my purse and lock my door. I have to talk my hand into staying steady enough to get the key in the lock.
When I come down and step out into the light, he’s there waiting, patiently. Just as I imagined he would be. Motorcycle idling between his long legs. Leaning forward, casually against a helmet between his thighs. In no hurry to rush me. Silently allowing me to set the pace.
“Bonjour, Taryn.”
“Bonjour, Etienne.”
He hands me the extra helmet strapped to the back of his bike. He came prepared this time. I cross my purse over my shoulders before taking the headgear.
“Ready?” He says after we both have our helmets on and holds out his hand for me.
“Y-Yes.” I take it.
I swing my leg over the back of the bike and settle on the seat. I adjust the skirt of my dress so that it won’t fly up when he takes off. I slide forward, situating his hips between my thighs and nestling his ass against my crotch. Wrapping my arms around his waist, my hand presses low on his chest. I feel his heart rate spike. Which helps me to relax a little knowing that he may be nervous as well.
His work-roughened hand rubs over mine. A soothing and sweet gesture, before he reaches for the handlebar. We take off down the street. The exhilaration of being on the back of a bike with the wind whipping past us and my body wrapped around a beautiful man runs through me, unlike the night Kari left. This is the way it was supposed to feel. And it feels good to finally enjoy it.
We only ride for about fifteen or twenty minutes before he pulls up to an old, red-colored building. I stay silent as I follow him inside. He moves to the side to let me go up the steps first.
“The top floor,” he says softly.
I self-consciously start up the stairs. I’m too busy worrying about my ass in his face than how many flights of stairs we go up. I realize it’s quite a lot when we reach the top and I’m out of breath.
He unlocks his door and lets me inside. It’s a spacious flat with tons of natural light streaming in from the large windows. The kitchen, dining, and living areas are all open. A metal spiral staircase leads up to what looks like an open, loft bedroom. His living room space is shared with his art studio. Paintings and blank canvases are lined along the floor, propped up against the wall. A very worn, wooden easel holds a place of importance in the middle of the space.
Several different types of seating take up the rest of the space. Many of the pieces are old-fashioned. A brown leather tufted sofa, a red velvet chaise lounge, a couple of eclectic chairs, and a few large ottomans. Items that he’s more than likely collected over the years. Hand-me-downs. Estate sales. Discarded pieces that the owner no longer felt were valuable, and so on. I assume they’re all for his subjects to sit on as he paints them, depending on his mood. I can’t help but wonder if he’s made love to those subjects on these very pieces of furniture.
The flat isn’t new or remodeled. The original wood beams give the ceiling character. Cracks in the plaster show. The original wood floors are scuffed. But there’s so much charm in the whole package. Just like its resident.
“Your place is amazing. And just as I would’ve imagined it.”
“Merci. It is not much, but it works. And the light here is perfect.”
He studies me, and I try not to fidget.
“Would you like something to drink before we begin?”
“Uh…no. I’m fine.”
My throat is actually extremely dry with nervousness. But it’s also so tight, I doubt any beverage would make its way down.
“Alright.”
He slowly walks towards me as if I’m a skittish animal that might bolt at the first sign of trouble. He’s probably right. He stops only inches away from me. I can’t look up, so I just stare at his chest.
“Do you trust me?”
I inhale deeply and peek up at him. At this proximity and in the bright afternoon light, his eyes are greener than I’ve seen them thus far. I bite my lip and nod my head, not trusting myself to speak.
He reaches behind me. His face is so close that his hair brushes my cheek. It smells like heaven and expensive shampoo. He pulls a colorful scarf from the privacy screen standing behind me. I assume the screen is for his subjects to change behind.
The scarf has shades of yellow in it that matches my dress. He drapes the silky sheer fabric around my neck, and it hangs over each of my breasts down to my stomach. Etienne tugs at the ruffle of my dress that hangs off my shoulders. I instinctively want to grab his hands to stop him, but instead, I try to focus on my breathing.
The bodice of my dress slips down over my bra.
“Lift your arms out.”
I pull my arms out of the dress, and the bodice falls around my hips. Etienne lets the dress stay where it is, and then reaches behind me again. This time his fingers find the hooks of my strapless bra. My breath hitches as he unclasps it. He gently peels it away from my skin, careful not to move the scarf that still covers my now naked breasts. Although looking down, I can see a hint of my areolas through the sheer fabric and design. My hardened nipples poking through. The scarf only giving the illusion of being covered up.
“Please, sit on the chaise.”
Holding the scarf securely against me, I move over to the red velvet, gold detailed lounge on shaky legs. Etienne begins to list off instructions, and I follow them to the letter.
“Good. Take off your shoes. Now, lean against the arm of the chaise with your arm on top. Rest the side of your head on your hand, palm open with your fingers in your hair. Perfect. Now, bring your top leg forward, bending it at the knee.”
He comes towards me and begins to arrange the skirt of my dress around my legs and the bodice of the dress around
my waist. Then he adjusts the scarf so that it stays in place over my breasts and leaves a peek at my bare midriff. His knuckles and fingertips graze harmless parts of my skin. My outer thigh, my knee, a shoulder. As innocent as the touches are, they are still more erotic than if he caressed my nipples or clit. It is the anticipation. The sexual tension between us.
He stands back and assesses me. He nods, satisfied.
“Do not move.”
He backs away from me towards his easel and empty canvas. He lifts an old, paint-crusted wooden palette and places his thumb through the hole. I watch him as he begins to select and add globs of different color paint he intends to use. He blends some of them together to get the perfect shade and grabs the brush he wants to start with.
Etienne’s eyes finally come back to me. He turns his head this way and that, evaluating me from all angles. My nerves are shot, and I want so badly to cover myself and bolt from the room. But I hold still.
“S-Should I look at you or at something else?”
“Me. Look at me, Ryn. No more hiding.”
He begins to paint, and my eyes are glued to him. His instructions give me the opportunity to watch him unfettered. Now that I have a reason to stare at him, I take advantage of every second to absorb the gorgeous artist.
His white shirt hints at his muscled physique underneath as he moves, and the fabric stretches across his skin. His jeans hang low on his hips, and like many things around him, they’re stained with paint. He kicks off his boots and socks to paint barefoot. The way the jeans fall over the tops of his naked feet is somehow incredibly sexy.
He ties up half of his hair in a topknot, so that it doesn’t fall in his face, leaving the rest down to brush his shoulders as he works intensely. He worries his bottom lip with his teeth as he concentrates. Each time his eyes come back to me, it feels like a caress. The way they move over me. The way they travel over my lines and curves before he paints those same lines and curves on the canvas. I feel beautiful, sensual, and sexy, under the spell of being his subject. As if I’m the only thing that matters in his world at this moment.