Page 9 of Clay

Ivy moved deeper into the studio and heard him close and lock the door behind her and follow her in.

She moved to the tiny kitchenette and put together the cup of coffee she’d started out of nervous habit right after she’d called him. Turned and jumped back. Squeaked in surprise.

He was right there. Had moved so quietly she’d assumed he was still near the door.

She shoved the cup into his hands then leaned against the concrete counter.

He reached around her and put the cup on the counter and resumed his position, his attention so focused on her it felt like a laser.

“Ivy, are you all right?” he repeated.

She bit her lip. “No. Whoever that was… I don’t even know how to describe it. The breathing was creepy, but when he said ‘There you are,’ it scared me. I’m probably jumping at shadows, but it just seemed so menacing. Like the only purpose was to frighten me.” She took a deep breath. “And now that I say the words out loud, they seem silly. And that I let his words work.”

He just regarded her with that steady gaze for a moment longer, then reached around her, grabbing the mug.

He was so close, and she just wanted to cuddle against him again. So instead she turned in the opposite direction, made her own cup of java. When she turned, he was in the middle of the studio, looking at the canvases of her work in progress propped on easels, the art hanging on the pristine white walls.

While her apartment upstairs was a study in color, downstairs she’d treated her workspace like an art gallery. Simple, meant to showcase the beauty of the art. Meant to ground her when the creative voices within became deafening.

Simply looking at it settled her last bit of disquiet. She’d done something here. In creating her art and in creating this space. It was a far cry from the building she'd purchased three years ago.

“These are really good,” he said, indicating a triptych she’d done of the high desert at sunset. The colors were vibrant orange and dusky purple, a scattering of stars beginning to appear in the night sky.

Her other on-spec work was crowded in a corner right now, and she hoped she’d have the creative spark to do more with it tonight.

She moved to stand next to him. “Thank you. Let’s go upstairs. I need to be a bit more Zen to talk about this.”

He nodded and followed her to the interior stairwell. It was functional, just like everything else in the repurposed bodega. She’d bought it for the amazing value and even better light and realized later how convenient—and safe—the setup could be. So she’d had the exterior staircase to the apartment removed and installed a fire escape on the roof, which she’d converted to an outdoor space.

The extensive renovations had taken the last of the cash from her father’s life insurance, but she knew he’d appreciate the fact she’d put the money into something as solid as real estate, especially now that her investment had quadrupled in value.

She heard her protector’s phone ping and realized halfway up the stairs that she still had no idea what the hell his name was.

~

Clay knew the incoming text was likely from Dev, but right now he was consumed by the sight of Ivy Foster ascending the stairs in front of him. The woman’s butt was a masterpiece.

He very consciously lifted his gaze to the center of her back, which didn't help one little bit, since she was just as tanned and toned as she'd been in the cafe. He mentally shook his head and got himself back in the game.

He wasn’t here to think about how tasty she looked. She was a job, and even if the call had been a prank, it might be related to McAlister’s disappearance.

So instead of memorizing her very delectable ass, he looked over the railing at the studio.

The space had been the very last thing he’d expected, looking more like a high-end art gallery than a studio. It was also a bit… linear for what he’d imagined her working in.

Even in their brief encounter yesterday, she’d been one of those people who was simply a sunny personality, even when shewas worried about her friend, and then about her own safety. Seeing something so sterile surprised him.

He was very purposefully not thinking about how she’d felt in his arms. About how everything inside had gone quiet the moment she’d snuggled against his chest. Because he was here for a job, nothing more. Never mind that he wanted to feel that sensation again more than almost anything.

Then she opened the door and stepped into her living quarters.

Here was the visual assault he’d expected. And even though he was anticipating it, it still took him aback for a long second.

The room was awash in color, the walls sunshine bright, decorated with bold pops of color ranging from tapestries to paintings to sculptures resting on shelves. One wall looked like a well-choreographed dance of spray paint, reminding him of a railroad car flashing by as you waited at a crossing. A study in true folk art wholly unappreciated by the masses.

A low-slung tangerine sofa crowded with colorful pillows sat in the middle of the room, anchored by an industrial electrical spool repurposed into a coffee table, and two overstuffed turquoise armchairs.

Assault was the right word to describe the place.

---