Gray looked ... well, displeased. He looked that way for several long moments. Then he stood without a word and headed toward the door.
"Would you have wanted to be told?” she shot across the room, and he turned back.
"Let me tell you something,” he said, hand upraised as he stalked over to her. “I was drunk. More than that, I was pretty damn devastated by the whole turn of events."
"You're right,” Aubrey drawled, looking up at him. “As you've said so often, I took advantage of you."
"I'm simply saying that I wasn't thinking especially clearly. And that was before you dropped yourself naked into my lap."
"And this lack of clear thinking ... That persisted until the morning?"
"I'm sorry I didn't take you to breakfast,” he snapped.
"You didn't have to take me to breakfast,” she retorted. “You could have got my phone number, though."
"For what?” he demanded. “In what capacity did you think we were going to continue our relationship?"
"As Red Sox fans. Oh, for God's sake, Gray, would you get over yourself? I couldn't care less about you and your fear of commitment. I don't want to be the girl to ‘fix’ you. But we could have talked about Curt Schilling. That's all.” She was silent for a second. “And I could have given you your cap back already."
Gray sighed. He tunneled his hands through his dark hair, leaving it tousled. Then he sat on the couch next to her, propping his elbow on the back of it, turned to fully face her. “What do you think about Curt Schilling?” he asked.
She stared at him. “That's it? That's what you have to say for yourself?"
He shrugged a bit. “I think it's a good move."
"Well, of course it's a good move! You move Derek Lowe to the number three start and there's no way Derek Lowe is a number three starter."
"That's right. I remember now. You're a D-Lowe worshipper."
"I just remember that year when we made the playoffs and he was the only pitcher I wanted out there and I will be forever grateful to him for that."
"You would make the worst manager. You're so sentimental."
"I would not make the worst manager. I know the worst manager. I'm not him."
"True,” Gray agreed, and then said, “Now that I've lulled you with a bit of baseball talk—"
"Lulled me?” she exclaimed hotly.
"I'm sorry. You were too angry at me to accept an apology a few moments ago, but I'm hoping you're a little calmer now and I am sorry. I keep trying to come up with excuses for the way I behaved, because I honestly don't usually behave that way. I may have meaningless relationships but they do usually involve last names and I handled myself and the situation badly and I've been backpedaling with you ever since. I'm just not used to it and I'm not doing a very good job."
Aubrey chuckled in spite of herself. “I should give you some pointers. It's the story of my life. Act first, think later."
"You're too hard on yourself. It must be the Red Sox fan in you."
"Why aren't you too hard on yourself?"
"I had two years to develop a healthy self-perception. I don't want Sophie to tell Dirk."
"Dirk's the baby's father?” Aubrey guessed.
"He was never worth Sophie's time,” Gray spat out in disgust. “And aside from the fact that getting pregnant was itself a monumental mistake, she had to go and pick the most unsuitable father. Really, what is it about the women in this family?"
"You can't just not tell him, Gray."
"He's such an idiot, Aubrey. He wouldn't even notice that—"
"If I had been pregnant, would you have wanted to know?"
"Of course. Don't be foolish. But I'm not Dirk."
"And thank God for Sophie—and for the baby—that that's true. But you can't make Dirk's decisions for him."
Gray sighed. “It's just more for Sophie to deal with."
"She's strong,” said Aubrey. “Stronger than you realize, because in your head she's still eight years old. And maybe stronger than you've ever really let her be. She can handle it."
"That's how you paint her,” said Gray, looking at the painting.
Aubrey glanced at the painting, feeling flattered that he had noticed. She had wanted to paint Sophie as she was, teetering on the brink of adulthood, that lovely moment when a girl turned into a woman and had all the most beautiful features of each. She looked back at Gray. “You have a good eye."
Gray shifted his attention from the painting. “Meaning what?"
"Meaning that you don't need art lessons. You have a good eye. You understand painting. And you've already got yourself a Gainsborough. That's a good start. A damn good start."
"I could add a few Thomases as well,” Gray remarked lightly, standing and walking over to the half-complete portrait of Sophie, hands clasped behind his back and leaning forward slightly to study it. “I'd like to buy it when it's finished."
"Buy it?” Aubrey echoed.
"Mm-hmm.” Gray walked toward the other canvases that she'd been fooling around with earlier. “Twenty thousand sound like a reasonable price to you?"
"Twenty—” Aubrey scurried around to head Gray off before he could reach the other canvases. “Uh, these aren't done.” She spread her arms out protectively.
"Uh-huh,” said Gray, and stepped around her.
"Gray,” she said helplessly, even grabbing his arm in her desperation. “These are—"
"Different,” he finished for her.
Aubrey glanced at them, angry modern slashes that she had used to get out her initial painting frustrations. “Well, they—I mean, they—” Gray was looking down at her now, unnervingly. She could feel his gaze, so she kept looking at the paintings. “They're not done,” she said.
"What does go on inside that head of yours?"
She looked at him warily. His eyes were thoughtful. Soft, hazy blue-gray. Like that Monet, she thought stupidly. The one with the cathedral, through the fog. She was floating in him, floating, the way she had the first time she'd seen that Monet, across the room.
Yes, Gray was like a splendid piece of art. She could study him all day. She could paint him. Oh, how she could paint him. And she could devour the man if he'd let her, nip and nibble and love-bite her way all over him. Her body moved instinctively, swaying in his direction without even her realizing it.
His attention was back on the paintings. “I can't figure you out,” he was saying. “I try, I do, but I haven't been able to wrap my mind about you. The way you can paint Sophie the way you paint Sophie—and then you paint these.” He looked back at her then, puzzled. “I really can't...” Gray trailed off. Because Aubrey's wide blue eyes looked wider than usual, devastatingly blue, and she was staring up at him, head tilted a little, lips parted and moist, and Gray tensed.
When she looked at him, just like that, he could swear she wanted him to kiss her.
Her hand was resting, warm and light, on his forearm; and was it his imagination, or did her breath seem a little shallow?
Maybe it was his imagination. It seemed to run rampant when he was in the woman's vicinity.
He should probably take a step back before he did anything that would damage the fragile alliance he'd managed to build with her. She had never wanted to see him again. He had finally gotten her off that point. Now he was going to kiss her? Prove he just couldn't keep his hands off her?
So what if it was true. He should probably move away right now. Because there was no way he could kiss her and leave it at just a brush of his lips.
Yes, stepping back would be good. Right ... now. Now. He would step back ... now.
Or, then again, she could step back. He would push it just a bit, not actually kiss her, but just tilt his head toward her, just like so, just a bit...
She didn't move away from him. The touch on his arm got a little heavier. She was leaning on him more, he realized.
"Gray,” she said.
She didn't sound breathless. Not even the least bit aroused. His imagination w
as running away with itself.
"Aubrey,” he replied. He did sound breathless. Plenty aroused. He cleared his throat self-consciously.
"You have...” She trailed off and took a hasty step back—so hasty that she seemed to trip over herself, stumbled, grabbed at the nearest painting and knocked it off its easel. Gray watched her pick it up and promptly drop it again.
Maybe she was flustered by him. Good to know.
"Um,” she said, trying again with the stupid painting, managing to set it on its easel.
"What do I have?” he asked.
She could swear he sounded amused. She glanced at him. He had stuck his hands in his pockets and he was rocking back on his heels. He looked totally unruffled, which he naturally would, because she had seldom seen him look ruffled.
No wonder his brother and sister seemed to view being related to him as a bit of a trial. He was pretty damned irritating. And she had been going to say that he had beautiful eyes. Except that his eyes then were suddenly looking at her as if the thoughts running behind them had taken a turn toward kissing her.
Gray Delamonte couldn't kiss her. He wasn't even supposed to be touching her. Which made her realize that she was the one touching him.
"Um,” she said, and swiped her hands through her hair. Then she sent him what she hoped was a brilliant smile. “You have too much money. Offering me twenty thousand dollars."
"I paid a ridiculous amount of millions for that picture of the girl in my living room."
"It's a painting, not a picture. And it's a Gainsborough. You should have paid a ridiculous amount of millions."
"Well, it was ridiculous. I like the painting, that's all. But I like these better."
Aubrey could feel the blush. Surely he knew he could get her back into bed with very little effort. There was no reason for all this empty flattery. “No you don't. You should go. The paintings aren't for sale."
"They're not?"
"No.” Aubrey scurried over to the door, holding it open, hoping he would take the very broad hint. “The one of Sophie I was going to give to her for a gift. And the rest of them are mine."
"Ah.” He was taking the hint—but very, very slowly. The progress he made across the suite was excruciating. “Can I commission a painting, then?"
"No,” she answered shortly. “I don't paint for other people. I paint for me."
"You're painting for my mother."
"That's different.” He came to a stop in front of her, and she tipped her head back to look up at him rather than the knot in his tie. “Thank you for stopping by,” she said politely.
Why did they always end up sounding like strangers by the end of an encounter, Gray wondered. “Thank you so much for talking to Sophie. Really. I cannot thank you enough. It was inappropriate of me, to say the least, to ask for your help in such a personal matter. But I really didn't know who else to turn to, and I cannot thank you enough for helping me out and barely blinking an eye. I know you don't want to be friends, but thank you anyway for—"
"It isn't that I don't want to be friends,” she said hastily. It sounded cruel and selfish when he said it like that.
"No?"
"I just don't think we'd made good friends."
"Oh,” he said.
"Yes,” she agreed awkwardly.
"Probably you're right about that. Although it would be nice to talk baseball every once in a while."
"Well, we could do that,” she decided.
Also it would be nice to have sex every once in a while...
Gray decided against saying that. “You said I have a good eye,” he remarked instead.
"What?"
"With regard to art."
"Oh. Yes. You seem to."
"Then don't tell me that I don't like your paintings better than the girl I have over my fireplace. Because I do.” He reached with his thumb, startling her, sliding it along the top of her cheekbone, and she heard the squeak this provoked out of her.
She jumped and tried to move back, but his thumb was gone just as quickly as it had come, certainly gone before her body had finished reacting, heart thumping hard and breath suddenly vanished.
"Eyelash,” he said, holding his thumb out toward her. “You should make a wish."
"What?” she asked stupidly, shrinking up against the door for fear he'd touch her again and she'd whimper and bury her head in his chest the way she longed to. She forced her eyes to his thumb. She could just make out one reddish eyelash lying on it.
"Make a wish,” he prompted again.
"I don't want to make a wish."
"Then I'll make it for you.” He closed his eyes for a brief moment, opened them, leaned over, and delicately blew the eyelash off his thumb.
She stared at him, swallowing thickly. “What did you wish for?"
"Aubrey,” he chided good-naturedly, “don't you know anything about wishes? If I tell you, it won't come true."
Then he startled her by winking and leaning over and chucking a finger under her chin. And then he left.
Left her alone with her chaotic thoughts and her traitorous body and her heart doing all kinds of inappropriate flips and thumps and—
God, he was making things so difficult!
Chapter Twelve
T.S. Eliot once said we measure our life in coffee spoons. But everyone knows ole T.S. could never get around on a fastball anyway. We really measure our lives in Red Sox postseason horrors.
—Bill Reynolds, Providence Journal October 10, 2004
She started painting him that night, limiting her palette to the lyrical blue-grays of his eyes. She painted him through a swirl of hazy, dreamy fog, the way he seemed to make her feel, applying the paint in thick, quick, impressionistic stabs, and by five in the morning she'd made much progress and was pleased with none of it.
It captured not at all the essence of Gray. It was a good likeness of him, when viewed from afar, but it was not what she had wanted from the painting. In frustration she fell into bed and dreamt of entangling clouds, and woke caught up in the sheets with a dull headache.
She called for an espresso and sat sipping it broodingly in front of the painting of Gray, displeased with it and counting the minutes until she was supposed to meet Moira and continue work on a painting that she was at least fairly confident she could paint. Unlike this one.
The knock on the door sounded close to eleven, and it occurred to her that she still hadn't got dressed, so naturally it must be Gray at the door. She did at least have the presence of mind to turn the easel over so the back was facing out. All she needed was Gray with his incredibly good eye for painting picking out his likeness through the periwinkle haze.
She also darted into the bathroom to run a hasty brush through her hair and frowned at her clothing. Another knock sounded, insistent.
"Just a second!” she called, trying to figure out what she could wear that would be alluring enough for Gray to see her in. Nothing, she decided in chagrin. If she answered the door in leather pants, he would surely know something was up. His eyebrows would skid upward. She could picture it now.
She'd like to paint him with that expression, she thought. That soft, silent exasperation...
Another knock sounded, reminding her that she actually had to answer the door. She pulled a bathrobe over her. Better, she thought, to make him think she was naked underneath. Surely that would distract him.
But when she peered through the peephole, she was disappointed to see Sophie standing there, dressed to the nines in a pair of skin-tight jeans, a loud sequined belt, and a blousy black tank top. The girl certainly didn't look pregnant. Aubrey pulled open the door.
"What took you so long?” Sophie asked, and then commented in surprise, “You're not dressed."
"No. I wasn't supposed to meet your mother until two, so I've been sort of enjoying a morning off—” Sophie walked right in, and Aubrey shrugged mentally and closed the door.
"I told my mother I was having a baby,” Sophie announced.
/> "Oh.” Aubrey blinked. “Already."
"Gray doesn't like to wait. I mean, put things off. He's allergic to procrastination. He said I had to do it right away so that Mom wouldn't feel hurt and left out. Hey, is this me?"
Sophie leaned closer to the portrait of her that Aubrey had started the day before. “Uh, yeah,” Aubrey answered. “So ... how did your mother take it?"
Sophie turned back to her, eyes shining brightly. “She's happy. I mean, I could tell she was also disappointed in me. A little angry, like Gray. Only less so. She said we can go shopping in celebration of her first grandchild."
Aubrey smiled. It was good of Moira to turn this into a celebration. She had to know that Gray was practically constitutionally unable to. “I'm glad she's excited. You should be excited. The timing might be off, but it's still a baby. A blessing."
"I told Mom how helpful you'd been. She was surprised. I mean, not that you've been helpful, but that Gray asked for your help. She said she didn't know you and Gray were such good friends. That was when Gray changed the subject. What's going on with you and Gray?"
"Absolutely nothing. We aren't even really very good friends. It's just that he doesn't have any other woman friends."
"True enough. Anyhow, Mom said I was to invite you along on the shopping spree."
"Oh. Oh, well, I ... I don't know if I should—"
"You should come. She said no working for the day. We'll have a good time. Mom knows how to shop."
Aubrey had no doubt of that. She just wasn't sure if she wanted to spend the whole day with Moira and Sophie Lowenby. As if she were best friends with them or something. “The thing is that I—"
"Please come,” said Sophie. “Please. You were very helpful. You should at least share in the celebration."
Aubrey hesitated, then sighed in frustration. “Alright,” she agreed. “Alright, I suppose I should go. But I never got around to taking a shower."
"I'll wait,” said Sophie, dropping onto the couch and turning the television on.
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