Page 2 of The CEO's Obsession

I feel the hard lines of my face softening as I take it all in. This girl, this artist—she paints what others are too afraid to feel.

I want to know her. I want to possess every brushstroke, every fleck of paint.

I want to own that fire in her eyes.

Harper crosses her arms, her body language screaming defiance. But I can see the way her pulse quickens at the base of her throat, the slight catch in her breath. She feels it too—this electric current humming between us.

I'm close enough now to catch the faint scent of turpentine and something floral. Her eyes narrow, assessing me. I can almost hear the gears turning in that fascinating mind of hers.

"Your art is...captivating," I finally say, my voice low and smooth. "Raw."

I watch the surprise flicker across her face, quickly masked by caution. She blinks, clearly caught off guard.

"Thanks," she mutters, the word laced with suspicion.

But there it is—the slight quirk of her eyebrow, the ghost of a smirk playing at the corner of her mouth. She's not falling for flattery, no matter how sincere. I find myself oddly pleased by her skepticism.

I want to push further, to see what other reactions I can draw from her. But I hold back, savoring this moment of tension.

Then, I lean in slightly, my eyes never leaving hers. "What inspires you?" I ask, genuinely curious. "Your work has such...intensity."

She tilts her head, a strand of auburn hair falling across her face. For a moment, I'm seized by the urge to brush it away.

"Oh, you know," Harper quips, her tone light but guarded. "The usual. Existential dread, overpriced coffee, and the occasional rabid squirrel."

I can't help but chuckle, caught off guard by her sharp wit. It's refreshing, this refusal to be impressed by me. Most people in this town fall over themselves in my presence, but not her. She's a challenge, and God help me, I'm enthralled.

"Rabid squirrels, hmm?" I counter, matching her playful tone. "I'd love to see that piece."

"Sorry," she shoots back, a mischievous glint in her eye. "That one's for my private collection. Can't let just anyone see my deepest, darkest squirrel-based fears."

“Ah, but I’m not just anyone,” I point out.

She raises an eyebrow at me. “You are to me. I don’t even know your name.”

“Mason. Mason Blackwood.”

“Harper. Harper Lane,” she quips back.

The tension between us crackles, an unspoken energy neither of us can ignore. I feel an undeniable pull towards her defiance, her refusal to be cowed by my presence or wealth. It's intoxicating.

For a moment, I forget about the fundraiser buzzing around us, the carefully cultivated image I've spent years building. All I see is her—this fiery, enigmatic woman who paints her soul onto canvas and throws my world off its axis with a single smirk.

I want to know everything about her.

"Tell me about your ambitions, Harper," I say, leaning in slightly. "Where do you see your art taking you?"

Her eyes narrow, suspicion flickering across her face. "Why do you care?"

I shrug, aiming for nonchalance despite the intensity I feel. "I'm curious. Your work...it speaks to something raw, something real. It's rare to find that authenticity in Oakwood."

Harper's gaze softens a fraction, and I can see her wrestling with whether to let her guard down. "I want to make people feel," she finally admits. "To create something that resonates beyond this bubble of privilege."

The bustling square seems to fade away, leaving just the two of us in our own private world. I'm acutely aware of every shift in her expression, every subtle change in her body language.

"And what about you, Mr. Mysterious?" she challenges, tilting her chin up defiantly. "What drives the man who looks like he owns half the town?"

I chuckle, but there's no real humor in it. "Power," I answer honestly. "Control. The ability to shape the world around me."

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