Twisted In You (a Twisted Romance Book 1)

by Rachel A. Marks

  The thing is, I need to take more direct action. This moping around and lazily dating and hoping needs to end.

  Like a dumbass, I kissed Diego. There’s no taking it back. It was completely horrible. But it was also flipping amazing—I was able to relax somehow, in spite of the stupidity of the moment—I had that surge of need people always talk about. Granted, it was followed by a massive anvil of suck.

  But, I obviously need more amazing in my life.

  I need more of that.

  The two times I’ve seen Diego since that night he hasn’t mentioned the kiss. I'm not sure how to feel about that. I obviously didn’t bring the moment up, either. That gallery is my only safe haven. I can’t let it be weird there. I am finding it a little difficult to be around him now, though, constantly noticing how good he smells and trying not to think about how amazing his hair felt between my fingers. But I need to get all that out of my head and just hope he’s not considering how best to fire me when he gets that uncomfortable look on his face.

  I’m beyond thrilled about this new opportunity to do a piece for the Arbor Show. It’s a perfect chance for my work to be seen by some fairly important people. I need to stop thinking about Diego’s soft hair and focus on getting back to friendship. I can’t screw this up. The life of an artist is all about moments, and this art show could be a big one.

  Of course, the crazy going on in my head means I haven’t been able to focus on anything substantial the last few days. So, the canvas in my room is still empty—a white space that’s glaring at me every time I go in my room. Which makes me desperate to fix this. I need to work my shit out or I may never see clear to create something in time for the show, not anything worth more than the wood frame it’s in, anyway.

  Which brings me back to my completely bonkers plan. I’m thinking Willow can help me. I don’t talk to her much about my lack of love life—because . . . well, I’m ashamed, I guess. The girl is Olympic-training good with men, and I’m like the girl in P.E. who can’t tell which ball is for which game.

  I lean on the counter, trying to decide how to broach this. “Can I ask you a question?”

  Willow pauses and leans on the fridge, facing me. “Shoot.”

  I take a deep breath. “So, I need advice about. . .” and I whisper, “sex.”

  She grins like the Cheshire cat. “Why?”

  I suddenly feel nuts for bringing this up with the marathon dater.

  “Don’t clam up,” she says. “This sounds like it’s just about to get good. Spill.”

  I sigh. “I’m gonna ask Lance’s friend, Fin, to teach me stuff.” Holy crap, I just said it out loud and it sounds even more pathetic than I thought it would.

  She twists her lips, looking confused. “Teach you, like, music?”

  “No,” I roll my eyes. “Flirting, foreplay. Sex.”

  She releases a burst of laughter. “Are you kidding?”

  “I don’t know, I’m thinking it’s a plan?” It’s completely insane.

  She laughs some more.

  “Oh, come on.” I push off the counter. “Relax, nutter. This isn’t Jr. High—I’m an adult here.” At least, I like to pretend that I am.

  She’s fanning her eyes like she’s tearing up with mirth. “You could tell him you’re writing a novel—that it’s research.” Then she laughs harder, pleased at herself.

  “Okay, clearly talking to you about this was a mistake.” I shake my head and walk toward my room.

  She stops me, waving me back to her. “Ver, come on. You gotta admit . . .” She’s taking deep breaths trying to calm herself. “It’s like a sad porno.”

  I smirk at her. “Well, I’m glad my lack of a love-life is so hilarious to you.”

  She clears her throat, forcing the grin from her face. “You’re right. I’m sorry. It’s not funny. You have needs. Needs that . . . rock star boy can possibly help you with.” Her lips tilt but she holds in the giggles.

  “It’s not like I have any better choices out there.” It's not like I can tell my gay boss how I now really want to have sex with him. “And I know Fin’s good.”

  Her eyes grow. “You what? How?”

  I mentioned that point why exactly? “I kinda overheard, slash, saw him, um, giving a girl . . . a little happiness.”

  She gasps and that Cheshire grin lifts her cheeks again. “No, effing way! When was this? You’ve barely seen the boy!”

  “Lance’s party. In my ex-room.”

  She leans in. “Your room! Oh em gee, this is the best news I’ve heard all year. I want deets; like, what position, clothes off or on, everything—is he hairy? He seems like a hidden-chest-hair kinda guy, am I right?”

  “Seriously, girl, you need to eat some ice.”

  “Oh, come on, a little healthy curiosity.”

  “I’m trying to talk to you about this calmly, and now you’ve got me worrying about covert chest hair.”

  She holds up her hands, waving them in the universal erase motion. “Okay, you’re right. Sorry. So, how’re you planning to ask the lovely Irish boy?” Her brows go up and down.

  She can’t help herself. Serious and sex don't fit in her brain at the same time.

  “I guess I’ll just ask?” I say like a question, feeling lost.

  “Just ask? No way. Bad idea. This is where I come in; I could help you make a plan to trap him.”

  I suddenly feel like I saw this in an episode of I Love Lucy . . . and it didn’t end well for anyone. “I don’t know. . .”

  “Oh, come on! It’ll be fun. A bonding thing! You’ve been spending so much time the last month helping Diego get ready for that tree exhibit and I’ve been all alone.” She sticks out her bottom lip.

  “Jade’s been home,” I say.

  She lifts her brow. “Boring Betty?”

  “Be nice.” I give her a warning glare. “And if you’re going to help, you may not do anything without speaking to me first. This is strictly going to be a business arrangement.”

  Her features shift into instant excitement, but then become fake-serious as she salutes me. “All moves shall be first discussed and approved by the committee.”

  I laugh and leave the kitchen, listening to her in the background while she chatters on about how much fun we’re going to have and how many perfectly wicked ideas she’s already coming up with for how to get the Irish hottie into my trap for Fling 101.

  SEVEN

  A few days later I'm still not so sure I've got my head screwed on straight. I haven't seen Fin again, but I haven't figured out how I'll start this crazy plan to get him to help me out with this love-cleanse. I obviously suck at flirting—a main part of the problem. And I can’t seem to relax to save my life once things start getting more intense. I need a script or something. How do you ask a guy for advice on this stuff without coming off like a total slut? Which begs the question; am I a total slut? Is it so horrible that I want to feel that thing—that heat, that connection with a guy—you know, what every song on the radio is about?

  I still have no answers as I head into Santa Monica for work. I make it to the Gilbert’s coffee shop across the street from the gallery and slip inside two minutes before closing. It's my day off but I have a few things I can do tonight around the studio. It'll get that blank canvas out of my head for a bit, then I'll go home and force myself to focus on the thing. Coffee plus one of Gilbert's famous scones can be my go juice for the night.

  As I walk in he’s wiping down the counter. “Hello, Verity, sweetie,” he says. “Are you on the clock? I'd have set your fave aside if I knew you'd be showing up tonight. I sold the last strawberry mint three hours ago.”

  I groan inwardly, my dreams of strawberry goodness crushed. “Do you have any lemon blueberry left?”

  He disappears into the back then returns two minutes later with a white pastry bag and a large coffee to go, made just right, because he knows me a little too well. He slides them across the counter and rings me up. “You just missed the boss-man. He grabbed a coffe
e and some advice a little bit ago.”

  “Is he okay?” I ask, too nosy for my own good. The farther I stay away from my boss's personal business the better right now. But I can't seem to help myself.

  Gilbert sighs and raises his brow. “Oh, honey. You have no idea.”

  I look at him, waiting for more but it doesn't come. He takes my credit card and chats to me about how he can't wait to get home and soak in a bubble bath. “It's gonna be Tom Clancy and Pino therapy tonight,” he says.

  “Spy thrillers, huh?”

  “You know it. Reminds you that it could always get worse.” He winks at me, but then his smile shifts. “You okay, sweetie?”

  I hug the pastry bag to my chest and nod, clenching my jaw because the urge to tell him everything rises up.

  “You have that look,” he says, leaning on the counter. “Like Diego did when he came in.”

  I can't seem to help myself. “He had a look?”

  “Did he ever. That man is carrying some stuff.” He makes a sound in the back of his throat like an underline. “Heavy stuff.”

  “Is he okay?”

  Gilbert studies me before he answers. “He'll make it through, I think. It would be nice if he had a hand to hold.”

  I can't help the spark of jealousy in my chest. “You should take him out on a date,” I say to cover my sour stomach. “You guys are cute together.” Gilbert might be a little older but he's easy on the eyes. And he's a good guy.

  Who am I kidding? I kind of want to punch my favorite baker in the face right now, thinking of him with Diego.

  Gilbert chuckles. “Not my type, your mysterious benefactor. And I'm pretty sure I'm not his. We stick to friendship, him and I.”

  “He's definitely mysterious. I wonder what his type is.”

  His brow goes up again. “Maybe you should ask him, honey.”

  I laugh. “Um, that's none of my business.” Of course, I did kiss the man. God in heaven.

  “Never stopped a woman before.”

  I leave the coffee shop and head for the studio, wondering what in the world Gilbert is talking about. What could be burdening Diego? He does seem worried lately, plus the whole delayed payment thing he mentioned a few weeks ago. And he's having a lot more anxious phone calls that I can hear snips of through the office shutters. I've never paid much attention to the business side of the gallery because Diego's always encouraged me to focus on my craft, to hone my skills, and let the number side of things get taken care of by someone else. But I suddenly realize how little I know about the ins and outs of the gallery beyond the creation and arrangement of the work. Maybe it's none of my business how Diego organizes his money, but it's something I need to understand if I'm going to get anywhere in the professional art world, especially when it comes to sales.

  I never wanted to be one of those ignorant females, like my mother, letting the men take care of things. And here I am realizing I've somehow become one.

  I'm ignorant about men and sex, about the world, and definitely about how to run a business. Well, I've decided to work on the men thing with Fin, so maybe it's time to work on the business side of things with Diego. And hopefully I can help him in the process. He's bound to understand that it would be good for me to get the full picture of the gallery's operations. And he's all about female empowerment. He'll get it.

  I enter the studio from the back and find him in the client seating area. There are papers spread across the glass coffee table and strewn on the floor. He's hunched, his elbows on his knees, his head cradled in his hands. He must not have heard me come in because when I walk around the white couch he jerks his head up and starts grabbing a couple of the papers in front of him, shoving them into a stack. “I thought it was your night off,” he says, hurriedly.

  “Sorry, I needed to check the appointment book for next week and finish up the Bowen order.” Wow, something's definitely wrong. His eyes are rimmed with red and his features are tired and drawn. “Diego, what’s going on?” I scan the stacks of papers, but I don't notice anything strange.

  His voice is clipped when he answers. “Everything's fine, Verity. Maybe you should stick to the schedule and come back Saturday to meet our new client.”

  “Okay.” My voice sounds wounded but I can't help it.

  I turn and head for the back door, disoriented, but then he says my name. “Verity.” He releases a long sigh as I turn to face him again. “Don't take it personally, all right? There's some stuff I'm dealing with tonight but it's going to be fine.”

  I move back to where he's sitting. “Can I help?”

  His features look pained. He stands and walks over to me, a raw look in his eyes. It's unnerving. I’ve seen him tired, I’ve seen him stressed. But never like this. This is fear. And it’s not a side of Diego I've ever experienced before. There's something almost scary about it.

  He stops right in front of me and I have to tip my head up to look at him. He reaches out and touches my arm, gripping it, like he’s trying to comfort. “Don't mind my bad mood. You bring your smile in here on Saturday and I'll feel better, I'm sure of it.”

  I leave the studio feeling muddy. His touch woke up a million butterflies under my skin again. And I wanted to comfort him so badly as I looked into his troubled eyes. I thought he’d just gotten behind on things or was low on cash. But now I can see it. Something is very wrong.

  I want to help him, I need to help him. But I have a feeling he isn't going to let me.

  EIGHT

  I wake up the next morning to the smell of coffee. But when I roll over it’s 11AM and I’m wondering who’s making it. It’s late for a Thursday. Jade should be in class. And Willow usually goes for a run, then does her yoga; she's not done until noon.

  I roll out of bed and stare at my new painting. I had to make myself start throwing paint on when I got home last night. I needed to distract myself. And I needed to get myself started if I was going to have the time to do it right. At this rate my Fin plan isn’t likely to work out, so I need to bite the bullet and force the inspiration in that case. Even if I am totally distracted by Diego right now.

  I can't believe the size of the piece he asked for. And the possible placement is serious. People will definitely notice it at the show. I could get actual professional work from this. And it would be a huge boost for my portfolio if it actually sold to one of the studio’s clients.

  It began as an acrylic brown-green blur around eleven and eventually morphed into a tree-shaped-woman, or maybe a woman-shaped-tree, that’s still unclear. It was about four in the morning by the time I finally fell into bed—my eyes hurt too much to see straight and I’d given myself a backache.

  I stretch before I sit up and pick at some of the paint on my bare stomach. My sheets have paint on them from when I collapsed without cleaning up. I’m only in a sports bra and panties and everything is now speckled, my underwear and skin smeared and spotty with Chrome Green, Indian Yellow, and Raw Sienna. I could lie on a forest floor and get lost.

  I give up on cleaning myself and head for the coffee. “I need another set of eyes,” I say as I open the door. And nearly trip over two man-legs stretched across my path.

  “Whoa,” say the legs. A hand grabs me by the arm to help hold me up. “Lazy it down, Picasso.” The legs have an Irish accent.

  I look up. Slowly, because I’m suddenly feeling like everything’s stopped in my head.

  He’s frowning at my arm, picking at a swath of yellow with his thumb. “Looks like you’ve been paintin’ it all arseways. You trip your head in the bucket?”

  I yank my arm back. “English much?”

  He barks out a laugh and says, “No.” But it sounds more like, noo. And the vibration of it inside my head makes me all fuzzy.

  Lance waves from the kitchen. “Nice war paint, Sis. Willow’s making me her special wake-up muffins.” He gives me a wicked grin and wiggles his brow and I sudden feel like hurling.

  “How are you always here now?” I grumble, crossing my ar
ms against my chest—telling myself it’s not to hide my exposed skin. “Go away.”

  Fin moves his legs so I can pass. “Cheery in the morning, this one.” He gives me a thumb point and I suddenly want to show him what my not-so-cheery-self can look like. But you don’t kick men when you’re wearing Victoria’s Secret.

  I head back to my room to get clothes on.

  “Don’t cover up on my account,” Fin says as I close my door. “It’d be a grand shame.”

  I hear Lance through the wood. “Dude, that’s my sister.”

  “She’s in her underthings, git,” Fin says. “Let a man look.”

  I can’t ignore the shiver of excitement that runs through me. Usually I’d miss it, figuring I was imagining a guy wanting me, but that was before I decided to become a real woman. And I have plans to consider. Can't fall back on old habits. It’s full-steam ahead now. Right?

  My skin prickles as I put my hand back on the knob and open the door.

  Both men blink over at me, Lance rolling his eyes and Fin’s lips growing a grin.

  “You’re right,” I say, heading past them into the kitchen. “This is my apartment. You guys should be the ones leaving.”

  Willow comes out of the bathroom wrapped in a towel, steam chasing after her. “Morning, Ver. Long night, I see.”

  “I have to figure out this painting,” I say, pouring coffee, pretending the boys in the other room are furniture, “or Diego won’t be asking for another one of my pieces again.”

  She comes into the kitchen and notices Lance and Fin. Her eyes snap to me, then she mumbles out the side her mouth, “He’s here.”

  My brother is grinning from ear to ear, staring at Willow’s legs. “I brought Fin for some of your morning muffins, Will.”

  God, let that not be code for a three-way.

  Willow blinks at Lance for a second, then walks over, grabs him by the shirt and yanks him with her through the kitchen and down the hall, into her room. Leaving me and my paint-splattered skin alone with Fin.

  Well, that wasn’t obvious at all. She better not actually have sex with my brother.