Page 91 of The Art of Being Merry
She nods. “Shall we get to it?”
“We shall.” I step back, giving her room to climb down from the seat. “What’s first?”
“Me painting you.”
“Oh, okay.” Seems she’s sticking to our original plan. Given the extra time, I thought we might start with sex to get her creative juices flowing.
She glances over her shoulder at me. “You seem disappointed.”
I banish the despondency. “I’m not. But there is going to be sex today, right? That’s part of your plan?”
“Oh, Mr. Nicholas.” She shakes her head. “Do you doubt me?”
“Not necessarily . . .”
Clementine unlocks the door, holding it open for me to step inside first. I shrug out of my jacket and boots. “I’ll meet you in the basement. Door’s in the back of the house, off the kitchen. Bring the coffees, but don’t put them near the supplies. Did you bring condoms or should I grab my stash?”
I’m halfway through the kitchen, but her question causes me to spin around. “They’re in my jacket pocket. Didn’t realize I needed them downstairs. Is there a bed down there?”
She waggles her brow. “Nope. Is that a problem?”
She’s got me more intrigued. “Nope.”
One half of the basement is designated as her studio. It’s organized in the way Clementine is—a work in progress.
The smell of paint invades my nostrils, and recessed lighting and track lighting with halogen bulbs provide illumination. Bottles of paint line up along a long slab of wood against the far wall with cups and brushes arranged on the other side of the sink. Different-sized frames lean against each other on the floor. A “works in progress” table covered in books, canvases, and one random slab of wood sits in the middle of the room. Another table with fabric scraps, a sewing machine, and random other materials occupies a fourth of the space. I sneak a peek at the sweater progress, and I smile. Even in this unfinished stage, it has the potential to win.
Changed into a pair of old, paint-splattered overalls, Clementine sets out several containers ofbodypaint along with a sketch of whatever she’s planning to paint on a cleared space on the table. On my torso. The whole “can I paint you” has a completely different connotation than I originally induced.
“When you said you wanted to paint me, I envisioned something completely different.”
She turns to face me. “Are you backing out?” Her tone is even, with not a trace of how she feels about my answer.
“God, no. I have complete faith in whatever you’re going to do.”
Her smile lights up the already bright room. “Superb. Shirt off and sit there.” She points to a stool positioned on a drop cloth. I do as she instructs, waiting for the next direction. She won’t give me even a hint of what she’s going to paint on me. And I’m not supposed to look. Not even a peek.
“I wouldn’t have pegged you as such a rule follower.”
“When you’re the one making the rules, I can’t resist.” I refrain from adding anything about how if my teachers had looked like her in high school, my grades would have been better. Middle school, too.
“Good information to save for the future.”
I can’t resist grabbing her by the waist and tugging her flush against me. She yelps, mostly caught off guard. “How long will this take?”
“Probably no longer than an hour. It’s for practice and an experiment. If it’s too difficult for either of us, we can always stop.”
“Have you done anything like this before?”
“Just face painting. Never professionally or anything. At the kids’ school and a few parties. It’s something I’ve been interested in for a while, but I couldn’t find a willing participant. The boys won’t sit still long enough.”
“I’m sure you could have hired a model or something.”
“Funds for fun projects are kinda limited, ya know?”
“Wait. I’m not getting paid to sit here for an hour while you decorate my body? What kind of horseshit is this?” I pout for dramatic sake.
“Oh you’re getting paid, mister. Not with dollars, though.”
