Page 5 of Almost Dating
She narrowed her eyes. “Is that some kind of pickup line?”
“No, I’m actually very interested. I have a lot of respect for artists.”
She stared him down.
He cleared his throat. “Besides, I know you’re with Tattoo Guy.”
“Rick. His name is Rick.”
He nodded gamely.
And because it was very rare for anyone to ever ask about her art, she found herself agreeing.
“Wait here,” she said.
She headed back to her place and brought back her favorite canvas, the one that had been on eArt for a year now for the bargain price of a hundred fifty bucks and still hadn’t sold. It was a dragon, serpentine and breathing flames, on a hazy lavender background. When she opened her door, he was standing in the hallway waiting.
“Oh, just come in,” she said, waving him in. “You’re not a serial killer, right?”
“My mother raised me not to be a serial killer, I swear. Right after eat your veggies, it was”—he raised his voice to a falsetto—“don’t be a serial killer, Barry.” He stepped inside. “I can give you her number if you don’t believe me.”
She laughed. “We’ll skip the parental conversation. Here it is.”
She held her breath. It was so hard to share her work. Rick thought it was a cute little hobby. But to her, it was much more important than that. It was her soul—that inner spark needing to express itself on canvas.
He didn’t say anything at first, merely held the piece up and peered at it closely. Then he held it at arm’s length and stared at it some more. She wanted to snatch it back and tell him to forget it, but then his kind, brown eyes met hers. “It’s stunning. Amber, you are so talented. Wow. What else have you got?”
“You want to see more?”
“Yeah, if you’ve got it.”
“Of course. I keep the finished canvases in my bedroom. Oh, just come with me. You look harmless.”
“Famous last words.” He wiggled his fingers. “Look out, I might mess up the covers.”
She snorted. “Like I make my bed.”
“I didn’t suppose someone with pink hair would.”
She laughed as she led him to her bedroom. Her paintings were stacked three deep along one wall. He took his time, stopping in front of each one, studying it from different angles, murmuring responses that she soaked in like a desert parched for one drop of encouragement.
“Nicely done,” he murmured. “Angsty,” came another response, and he was right. She’d painted it after she broke up with Steve, a six-month relationship that ended when she’d found him in bed,herbed, with another woman. “Gorgeous,” he said about an abstract that an ex had described as a spiral made on a kids’ toy, but was one of her favorite pieces. She felt like hugging this guy.
He went through the rest of them, murmuring soft praise under his breath, and finally turned to her. “Why are you hiding all these? They should be in a gallery in SoHo.”
A rare, beaming smile crossed her face, so big it made her cheeks hurt. “Thank you,” she said. “I’m not exactly hiding them. They’re all for sale on eArt. It’s just that no one has bought them.”
He raised a brow. “How much?”
“All different prices,” she said. “All very reasonable for original art. Nothing above two hundred dollars.”
“Why not try a gallery?”
“I sent my portfolio to a few, but no takers.”
He nodded. “Well, I’m sure you’ve heard thisad infinitum, but your work is incredible. You should be very proud.”
She blinked back tears. “I am.” She resisted hugging him. Barely. “Would you like to stay for some coffee?”
