Page 3 of The Art of Loving Ellie
XOXO Alex
P.S. I expect to present some new work from you at the
Christmas Eve Gala
I moan and rub a hand down my weary face. “No pressure.”
Grabbing my bag and laptop, I head to the elevator thinking over Alex’s note. This weekisgoing to be busy. We have to finish planning the upcoming Twilight Gallery we are putting on for some of Alex’s fancier colleagues. Big-name artists, who happen to create even bigger pieces, are expected to attend, and Alex’s new creation will be making an appearance as well.
My head is pounding by the time I reach the first floor of our work building. I grip the slim bottle of pepper spray sitting snuggly in my pocket, and flick open the plastic top, getting it ready should I need to use it. It’s a six-minute walk from Marpines to the train system that will take me home. I’m grateful for the short walk because that means there’s less opportunity for any human interaction.
I close my eyes once I sit down and let the gentle rocking and whirring of the train lull me to a peaceful place. Only thirty minutes to go until I’m within walking distance of my apartment.
When I reach the entrance to my apartment building, I stop to give a homeless man who's snuggled up against the building in various scraps of clothing and newspaper a couple of dollars and head inside. My cozy one-bedroom apartment is just one hallway away, and I'm relieved to see that I’m alone during my trek to comfort.
Turning my keys in the locks, I step inside my space and drop all of my things by the front door with a huff. The cartoon pirate on the Captain Crunch box above my fridge catches my eye, beckoning me with promises of sugary goodness.
I can afford a pretty decent living space in Lincoln Square thanks to Aunt Jane. My apartment isn’t large, but it's beautiful. There are four full-length windows in the main living area that have an amazing view of the Hudson River, and to the left of those windows sits my breakfast nook. The kitchen separates the nook with a small bar, and beside the kitchen, there’s a hall that leads to my bedroom.
After making my way to the fridge, I grab the milk and bump the door closed with my hip. I make a promise to myself that when I’m rich and famous, I will pay Aunt Jane back every single cent she has given me to make my dreams come true.
I put a huge spoonful of yellow sugar squares in my mouth, and stare at the section of my living room that has become my art studio. It looks sad and barren when it should be full of life and color. There are two easels covered by cloth tarps, with blank canvases underneath, begging to be touched. My paints, brushes, sketch-books, and the rest of my supplies are all huddled underneath them, neatly packed away.
Feeling an uncomfortable pressure in my chest, I turn my back to the area in disappointment. If I were the same person I was even just one year ago, all of my supplies would be scattered about in a passionate mess. I sigh, troubled with the sudden loss of my craft.What is going on with me?
Making my way to my bathroom, I take a nice hot, relaxing shower. Once I’m satisfied with my cleanliness and my fingers begin to prune, I step out and put on a loose t-shirt and my pink pajama bottoms that have little cartoon sloths on them that say, ‘Hang in There’.
I crawl into bed, closing my eyes, and hoping the rest of this week isn’t as depressing as today felt. Drifting off to sleep, I dream about dry spells both of the artistic and relationship variety. Deep down, I know Alex is right, and I need to get out and have some fun. I’m just not sure I even know where to begin.
Chapter Two
The wind whirls around me on my walk from the train to the office, and I continuously have to pull my hair out of my sticky lip gloss. My scarf has come loose from my coat and is flapping around, slapping me in the face repeatedly, and I’m starting to get irritated. I promised myself today would be a better day and dammit, I’m not going to let a little wind ruin it.
I’m attempting to wrangle my scarf and push the door open, all while trying to somewhat maintain my composure so Margaux doesn’t think I’m a total twit. Judging by her squinted eyes and puckered face, I can see that I’ve less than succeeded in that mission.
Finally getting inside the building, I turn around to scold the doors and realize I’ve dropped one of my bags in all of the chaos. I huff as I walk over to grab it off the floor, and turn to make my way back toward the elevator.
Instead of advancing forward to my desired destination, I’m propelled backward when I full-on body slam the solid form standing in front of me. Without even knowing who I’ve run in to, I start to sputter, “Oh my God! I’m so sorry!” Reaching out to try and stabilize us both, my hands wrap around what I realize are firm, male biceps.
My eyebrows rise in shock as my eyes adjust to what they can only perceive as the most attractive man in all of New York City. I’m struck by the curious way he’s staring at me, making me feel like a bug in a petri dish. The warm amber scent of his cologne slams my senses, and I feel a quick head rush. I expect him to be annoyed by my clumsiness, but to my surprise, he appears amused.
He lightly chuckles, “Whoa there, Windy.”
His deep, masculine voice rumbles between us, and I have to blink a few times to keep myself focused. The long sleeves of his shirt are folded halfway up his forearms, showcasing a tan that practically glows with warmth, and my fingers twitch with wonder at what it would be like to run them across his exposed skin.
The humor in his eyes shines bright, and he appears to be laughing at me. Did he happen to see the scarf display? Surely he didn’t.
“I thought that scarf was going to strangle you before you even got through the door,” he says teasingly.
Dear God, hedid. My heart beats loudly in my chest, and I feel my face burning hot. My gaze follows his movements as his arm flexes to fix his disheveled hair. His shoulders are wide, and even under his button-up shirt, and form-fitting vest, I can tell he is physically fit. His slacks hug his legs in all the right places, and I’m immediately drawn to his warm, welcoming presence.
His laughter is gentle, but I feel awkward standing here in front of this gorgeous guy, looking like a klutz. The man is taller than me, and I have to bend my head back slightly just to look up at him. He blinds me with a bright white smile as my eyes travel to a small scar on his left cheek just below his eye, and I’m curious as to how he acquired it.
There’s something about him I can’t put my finger on. He’s attractive, sure—but he’s unlike any guy I’ve ever met before. A lazy, confident smile graces his lips, and the way he crowds me while keeping just the right amount of distance causes my skin to flush.
I feel self-conscious, so of course, I have to blurt out something super embarrassing. “Yeah, this scarf is a real bad boy!” My eyes practically bug out of my head in shock.
Please, tell me that did not just come out of my mouth.
