Even though I had a trunkful of Davids back in New York, it never stopped me from adding to the collection each time I visited the museum. I’d made this trip to Florence four times so far with different students over the past year alone, and before that, Ian and I had spent the summer between our sophomore and junior years of college backpacking our way through the Italian countryside like any good art student would do. It came with the territory.
Today’s territory was the gallery.
This museum practically became my second home during that year of travel with Ian. And David was by far my favorite muse.
But for as much as I adored this statue, I figured it was probably time to find some alternate inspiration. Repetition birthed boredom. I didn’t want to tire of David, so I stopped before I toed toward that inevitable line.
I unhooked the buckle and lifted the flap on my bag to stow away my art supplies, canvas folding over on itself like an envelope of fabric. Today I would just ogle. That would do. Maybe tomorrow I’d find another statue to sketch. Get a new muse.
The room was still bustling with the mingle of tourists so I stepped up on toe to count the heads of each of my students, just to make certain they were all accounted for one last time. I’d yet to lose one on any of these trips, but I really didn’t want today to be one for that kind of first.
Six, seven, eight... When I’d located each one, I pulled out my phone to check the time. But before I could even wrap my fingers around the case of my cell or swipe a finger across the screen, a broad shoulder slammed into me, solid rock disguised as muscle that jolted my feet from their secure stance and hijacked my balance. I teetered on my heels as two hands landed on my body. Hot. Charged. Intrusive but shockingly welcome. One splayed on the low curve of my back—real low, skimming the roundness of my backside—the other delicately wrapped around my right wrist, a loose handcuff of warm skin encircling mine.
I knew the museum was crowded, but I hadn’t expected to practically land on my own backside while viewing David’s backside.
I also hadn’t expected to lock eyes with a man’s whose captivating beauty rivaled that of the immortalized statue behind him.
My breath caught in my throat. My mouth went instantly dry, all sandpaper and sawdust like I’d swallowed Aisle 6 of the Home Depot.
Blood thundered. Too much blood. It stretched out to all parts of my body, leaving me hot and fevered in places that never felt that way. Places that never felt anything.
“Permesso,” the man who couldn’t be older than twenty-five uttered, his palm pressing into my back. I reacted to it deep in my gut. More heat pooled in the recesses of my stomach.
Holy mother of pearl, his voice belonged to an angel with just enough rasp to hint at the devil.
I gaped, untethered from earth. Everything in me turned liquid. My bones ceased being bones.
“Bella?” His eyes were the most intense aqua I’d seen and I swam in the liquid ocean of them. No, I didn’t swim. I drowned. “Bella?” It was like he was asking if I was okay.
“Si.” I shook my head. I was all right, I wasn’t hurt. Aside from the almost drowning. “I mean, si. I mean, I’m fine.” I rubbed my forehead with my fingers and instantly felt the sheen of nervous sweat that gathered there.
He pulled his hand from my wrist and dropped it lightly onto my waist, a ghost of a hand. It almost felt like we were about to dance. Well, at least my insides were dancing. Everything fluttered with the force of a swarm of butterflies let loose inside my ribcage. Even my breathing faltered into an unsteady, rhythmless pace. Wings flapping, beating together, clashing.
I couldn’t pull my eyes from him.
The chestnut wave of his hair was cropped to show off his angular face. The thin, straight slope of his nose. The high rise of his sharply chiseled cheekbones. The defined square cut of his jaw dusted with just enough stubble to add rugged to his many descriptions. His eyes were shaped like almonds and the dark arch of his brow framed them to perfection.
He was absolutely stunning; the artistry of Michelangelo’s stone come to life before my eyes.
“You sure you’re okay?” he said, this time in English and the lack of a noticeable accent threw me for a loop and tossed me into utter confusion. I’d totally assumed he was Italian. “You’re not hurt at all?” He dipped his head down to my level and searched my eyes, wicked blue flickering like a flashlight swung side to side, connecting every so often in blinding hit of light.
He was tall. At least six-one or six-two. I had to crane my neck up to meet his gaze.
I forced an embarrassingly loud swallow and muttered, “No, I’m fine. Thank you.”
“Well, you shouldn’t really be thanking me,” he smiled, his full lips revealing gleaming white teeth. All straight, except a bottom one that spun slightly inward. Not at all an imperfection, but the only hint that he must be real. I silently thanked his parents for not paying for braces. I needed this moment of realization to be certain it wasn’t all a dream. “Don’t thank me. I very nearly knocked you off of your feet.”
A snort of a laugh flew out of my mouth. Oh, how he had knocked me off of my feet.
He pulled his two large hands from my body and straightened the knot of his black tie. Twisting neck. Set jaw. The suit he wore had to cost more than a year’s worth of my rent, and it fit as though it had been made and tailored just for him. I supposed it probably was. All I knew was that it didn’t come from that thrift store of mine. This was clothing on a whole different level, not just the kind that draped across your body out of necessity. No, he wore his clothes like they were an extension of him. A second skin.
It was funny because throughout all of my studies I’d come to adore the human body in its natural form. How the muscles molded around bone and how flesh wrapped around that muscle. I’d never been one for covering it up in my art, but standing here in front of this man in his perfectly fitted suit changed my mind on that matter. He was beautiful, and the clean lines and angles matched the structure of his face so effortlessly that I had to fight the urge to rip my pencils and paper from my bag and begin sketching him right there.
“I really am fine, thank you,” I said, knowing my cheeks had to radiate the blush that I could feel so hot on my skin. Blood, once again, betraying my body, collecting on my face and burning me from the inside out.
“Okay.” He drew my hand from my side and lifted it up to his mouth. When he placed his lips gently onto the row of knuckles, I almost fainted. Soft, like beaten and worn leather. That sueded plush touch caressed my skin. He didn’t move after doing it. Instead he just kept his eyes trained on mine. Then his mouth fell open slightly, and I swore he was about to say more.
I bound the air up in my chest, waiting for him to speak.
His brow tightened faintly and without another word, he stepped back as he released his command on my hand. Tourists and museum goers instantly filtered into the gap with their bodies and chatter ensued until I couldn’t see or hear him any longer through the crowd rushing between us.
It took a moment of hesitation before I could collect my composure. Pieces of it were scattered everywhere. On his hands, on his lips, in his eyes.
He’d rendered me completely helpless. Useless. A shell of myself sapped of any real thought or speech. Just hormones. Just desire. Need and want, though I couldn’t differentiate between the two at the moment.
I’d never felt anything like that with someone before. It was only a few moments, but the undeniable exchange burned into me with a lasting intensity.
Yeah, he’d left me rattled. A complete mess, to be honest. But he’d also left me with something else. Something my soul had been searching for, but I hadn’t expected to find so quickly.
This gorgeous, nameless man was about to become my latest muse.
CHAPTER THREE
“Harry, your decaf vanilla latte is up.” I scooted the mug across the bar. The ceramic clattered against the saucer underneath like the rattle of a china cabinet upo
n opening its warped doors. I loved that we still used actual mugs for our in-store patrons. One of the perks of working at an independently-owned coffeehouse. The other was the free drinks, obviously. And the third was the permanent coffee aroma that seeped in and out of my pores, breathing all its own from my skin, my hair. I chose to look at that as a positive instead of the smelly negative it masqueraded as and focused on the tons of money I was saving in perfume. Who needed Chanel No. 5? I had Coffee Shop 46th Avenue.
“And what do we have today, my dearest Julie?” A pair of round spectacles resembling owl eyes peered out over a newspaper at the table closest to the bar.
“You’ll have to come take a look for yourself.” I slid the mug closer toward Harry as he made his way up to the counter, bamboo cane in hand as an extension of his arm. He half-hobbled, half-walked the way those windup toys do in jerky, plastic movements. I wasn’t sure why, but it made me feel sorry for him.
The usual morning rush at the Bean There, Drank That coffeehouse had finally died down and now it was just our regulars at their favorite tables and couches. Harry Lombard was a retired professor from NYU, and while I knew he owned a fairly large apartment in Upper Manhattan, I often teased him about paying me rent for his well-worn spot on the blue velvet chair closest to my workstation.
“Oh, you’ve outdone yourself with this one,” Harry commented, angling his cup toward his face as he nodded in appreciation. Yesterday I had perfected the art of frothy star-shaped latte drawings; today it was the fleur de lis. “So tell me, when are you heading back?”
It had been eight months since my last trip to Florence, and I didn’t have another one on the schedule as of yet. My calendar was a blank grid of empty, eventless boxes. There was nothing to anticipate, other than my monthly visit from Aunt Flo. Not something to really look forward to.
“Nothing planned yet, but I love that you know Florence’s symbol, Harry. That’s why you’re my favorite customer.” I gave him a toothy grin and a wink, not at all flirting because he was easily three times my age and that wasn’t my style, but because this was the sort of relationship we had. Harry was a fellow lover of all things Italian. I appreciated that camaraderie.
“I thought you loved me because of the hefty tips I leave.”
“Yeah,” I laughed, nudging the empty plastic tip jar with my nail like a dog that scoots his food dish closer in the hopes of gaining another treat. “Those don’t hurt, either.”
Three crisp ones fluttered into the canister.
I made at least a dozen more fleur de lis foam creations before my morning shift was over and it was time to head to Anatomic Drawing 201 over on campus. With my messenger bag cutting fabric lines into my shoulder, I shoved my weight against the coffeehouse door, the bells chiming as it slammed back into place, announcing my exit like the applause after the curtain falls. Any more latte artwork would have to wait until tomorrow. That act was over. Now it was time for scene two of my day, and the main characters would be graphite and paper.
It was a hot afternoon in the city; a tangible heat, heavy with the weight of humidity. The bangs I’d recently lopped off stuck to my forehead and perspiration glued them into place. I tried adjusting my bag a million different ways, but there was no avoiding the inevitable sweat stain that crossed diagonally over my peach tank top, a sash that could’ve read, “Perspiration Queen 2013.” In a New York minute I’d quickly become quite an impressively hot mess.
“Hold up, Jules!” an unmistakable deep voice rang out through the air from over a block away. Ian’s feet fell in loud footsteps on the pavement as he raced to catch up to me, a stride both anxious and eager. He quickened his pace and I slowed mine. “Wait up!”
Ian was wearing a tight heather gray tee that hugged his upper body like spray paint.
“Where are you headed?” I asked, angling to face him as we continued walking side by side down the congested streets.
“Class.”
“You don’t usually have class right now, do you?”
We stepped out into the intersection amid the yellow taxicabs that flanked us on either side like we were suddenly swimming in a sea of disoriented goldfish.
“Not my class, your class.”
My grape chewing gum shot out of my mouth so fast it landed in the purple coif of the elderly lady crossing in front of us. I ignored it, hoping she wouldn’t notice. At least it was the same color as her violet helmet of camouflage. “Get out, Ian!” With a balled up fist, I slammed a hand into his chest. “You are not our model for today.”
“Not just any model.” His light brows shot up playfully into his hairline. “Your nude model.”
“For the love of everything holy, you cannot be our model, Ian.” My stomach dropped out. “I can’t draw you! That is all kinds of wrong! Incestuous even!”
“I agree, there is absolutely no way you can recreate this perfection.” He fanned a hand up and down the length of his tall body, a wand highlighting his frame. “But you are the best sketch artist I know, so I’m sure you’ll come close.”
“God, Ian!” Sweat pooled in my armpits and I wasn’t sure if it was from the actual late spring heat or the thought of drawing my roommate with no clothes on. Probably a little of both. Definitely a little of both. “I can’t see you naked!”
“Love, you’ve seen me naked hundreds of times.” Ian draped an arm coolly across my sticky shoulder.
“Yes, I’ve seen you naked. But I’ve never studied you naked, Ian.” My insides stung like they were grimacing painfully. “There’s a difference.”
“Aren’t you the one always saying how beautiful the male body is? I’ve seen your sketchpads, Jules. You can’t fool me. You love a hot nakey man almost as much as I do.” Ian raked his fingers through his golden hair, which had grown to nearly his shoulders over the last few months. Man, was he so sexy, and man, did he so like men. It sort of killed me and sort of made me relieved, because I honestly think it would be intimidating to be with someone as good looking as Ian.
“Wait.” My roommate stopped dead in his tracks. His feet were anchors dropped onto the gritty city sidewalk, his legs the taut chain. “Don’t tell me you’re all suits and ties now since that run-in at the museum with that gorgeous man you haven’t stopped talking about. You’ve been converted, Jules!”
“No I haven’t,” I laughed nervously as I leaned my shoulder into his side to throw him off balance. “I can appreciate the male body in all forms, both clothed and unclothed.”
We rounded 26th street in a horseshoe toward campus.
“Well, good to hear because you’ll get to appreciate a whole lotta me in about ten minutes.”
“Is the AC broken in here? Hell, it has to be a thousand degrees.” The girl next to me cooled her face with a makeshift fan she’d torn from her notepad. The ample cleavage that spilled from the deep scoop of collar was dewy with sweat.
“Totally agree,” another student at my left concurred.
We were in class and yes, it was hot, but I didn’t think a faulty air conditioning unit was to blame. I think my smoldering roommate likely had more to do with it.
“Shhh, that’s my roommate,” I murmured under my breath. Ian heard me. I could clearly see the corners of his lips tip upward. Even with his back to me (I’d selected my seat in the studio quite strategically today), his expression couldn’t be sheltered.
“Your roommate? Can you give him my number?” Fan-girl fluttered her cheeks again and slid a piece of scratch paper my direction. Her phone number was scrawled across it with the blocky penmanship of a four-year-old.
“Sure, I can, but he probably won’t use it. He’s not looking for a relationship.” Or for a female.
“Good,” she smirked haughtily. Thick clumps of mascara crinkled around her much-too-made-up eyes. I wasn’t sure why she had spiders for eyelashes, but maybe she had some kind of arachnid fetish. I couldn’t judge her for that. We all had our quirks, I completely got that. “Neither am I. Sounds like a perfect fi
t.”
“Not really,” I laughed, but stowed her number away in my bag just to end the conversation, almost feeling the disappointment I knew she’d experience in never getting that call.
So far I’d only gotten to Ian’s trapezoids and I really wanted to at least highlight the taper of his narrow waist that looked so good from this perspective with the warm glow of light rippling down it in contoured waves. Ian had been a competitive swimmer back in high school, and while he no longer kept up with the sport, his body maintained that sleek, toned physique regardless.
“Ten more minutes, class,” Professor Seyforth sang out. She waltzed around the room with her fingers steepled up to her mouth and her glasses slid low on her button nose. I loved how her Bohemian dress swam around her legs as she wove in and out of each row, admiring her class’s work with appropriately placed oohs and ahhs. When you pictured an art teacher, Professor Seyforth was exactly what came to mind. “And how’s our model doing? Ian, you hanging in there?”
“Oh, I’m hanging alright.”
I belted out an uncontrolled laugh. Everyone in the studio flipped his or her gaze my direction. Even Ian, and he had been as still as a marble statue for nearly the past hour.
“Sorry.” I shoved my eyes back down to my paper and let my fingers take over my thoughts and actions.
I’d always loved to draw, and I actually loved the order of lines. While my room would often look as though a tornado blew through followed by a hurricane and topped off with an earthquake, my artwork was always clean, proportional. What organization I lacked in the everyday, I made up for it in my art.
My parents thought I’d follow in my father’s footsteps and join his architecture firm because my affinity for detail and symmetry naturally lent itself to heading that direction. The obvious path to take. Straight and narrow.
Draw Me In Page 2