by the idea of female sexuality. Enamored by it from an artistic standpoint...not that anyone in her damned hometown would understand that. All they had seen were things that should be hidden away.
“Wren,” he started. “There’s nothing to be ashamed of.”
“I’m not ashamed,” she lied. “I would just prefer it if you left now. Please.”
He hovered for a moment, his eyes, which had darkened to almost black, flicking between her and the canvas that she held tight to her chest. Protecting herself or the painting, she wasn’t sure.
“For what it’s worth, I think your paintings are incredible,” he said, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Thanks again for dinner.”
“You’re welcome.” Her voice was a whisper as he walked out of the room, leaving her alone to ponder why the fates had decided yet again to use her art to humiliate her.
“Maybe you should take a hint,” she muttered to herself as she placed the remaining paintings back where they belonged. “Listen to your parents and get a real job.”
She would. Just as soon as she figured out what had happened to Kylie, she would head home and enter the real world.
WREN SAT BEHIND the sleek chrome-and-marble desk that crowned the entrance to the Ainslie Ave gallery. Her boss was expecting a potential client for a private viewing, so he was locked away in his studio preparing, which left her with a few precious moments of solitude to do some digging.
Hopefully, the chance to snoop would not only yield some valuable information but also help her to keep her mind off Rhys. And how he probably thought she was a nut job after the way she’d ordered him out of her apartment last night.
She cringed. The whole evening had been going so well. They’d had a great rapport and she’d gotten definite vibes of interest from him. Heated glances, an invitation to make a move. Then she’d blown it.
“Rookie move, Livingston,” she muttered to herself as she clicked out of Sean’s calendar. “You don’t think before you act.”
It was a criticism that had been handed to her over and over by her parents. Most of the time it followed, “Why can’t you be more responsible, like your sister?” Wren had never been too good at plotting out her moves before she made them. Often guided by impulse, she’d landed herself in hot water on a few occasions and had earned herself a bit of a reputation—unfairly, in her opinion—for being a wild girl.
She wasn’t wild. Irresponsible, perhaps. Spontaneous, definitely. But certainly not wild in the sense that they meant it back home.
Not that anyone believed her.
Shaking off the well-worn thoughts, she forced herself to focus on the task at hand. Her self-loathing could wait. She’d been working here for exactly three weeks now and all her preliminary searches had turned up zilch. Well, unless you counted a snarky online review of an exhibition Sean had run two years ago...which she didn’t.
Sliding down from her stool, she padded quietly across the showroom floor. The place was silent save for the swish of her skirt against the polished boards. The other two interns, with whom she shared reception duties and a cramped studio space, were painting today. She’d gotten to know them quite well in the last few weeks—thanks to the assistance of her amazing chocolate brownies—although she could tell both girls believed Sean Ainslie was a god among men.
The paintings in the showroom had been switched around this morning after Sean’s conversation with the client. He’d since selected a shortlist of works that he thought would suit the client’s needs. The rest of the paintings were locked away in some specially designed climate-controlled room to which Wren had not yet gained access.
Sean Ainslie came from money; she knew that for sure. His wealth wasn’t due to his art, although he’d had moderate success with a collection of paintings depicting the burned-out carcass of the iconic New York yellow cab. Yet the paintings he had ready for viewing were entirely different in feel and style.
Wren studied a smaller canvas, which showed an ice-cream cone melting in the sun. The painting had a slight cubism feel to it, the shapes on the waffle cone exaggerated and angular. Sharp. The vibrant colors seemed at odds with Sean’s darker, grittier pieces.
“Why were you drawn to that one?” Sean’s voice echoed against the high ceilings and bounced around, causing Wren to jump.
“It’s different from your other works.” Wren pressed a hand to her chest and felt her heart beat wildly beneath her skin. Sean unnerved her, especially his ability to sneak up on her out of nowhere. “I was wondering what inspired it.”
“I used to visit Coney Island with my grandfather when I was a kid.” He came up behind her and stood close. Too close. “Everything about that place was so...plastic. It felt unreal to me, even back then. Like it was something I’d made up in my head instead of being a real place.”
The scent of stale cigarette on his breath made Wren’s stomach churn. She tried to subtly put some distance between them by pretending to look more closely at the painting. “I’ve never been there.”
“Don’t bother. It’s a cesspool.”
“Right.” She nodded.
“Have you got the coffee on?”
“Yes.” Taking the opportunity, she stepped away from him and returned to her post at the front of the showroom. “I’ve also put out the croissants. Mr. Wagner should be here in five minutes. Would you like me to stay in the room in case you need anything?”
Please say no, please say no, please say no.
Sean’s thin lips pressed into a line as he considered her question. The scar on his left cheek seemed to twitch as the muscle behind it moved. “No, leave Mr. Wagner to me. The last thing I want is him getting distracted by a beautiful young woman.”
Wren forced her expression to stay neutral, despite her lip wanting to curl at the sleazy way he was looking at her. “Very well.”
“Feel free to get some work done in the studio, but don’t go home. I’ll need you to clean up once Mr. Wagner has gone.”
“Of course.”
She retreated before Sean could make any more requests...or comments about her appearance. He seemed to do that on a daily basis. Wren certainly wasn’t averse to compliments, but her skin always seemed to crawl whenever he was around.
The other interns—a blonde named Aimee and a girl with a Southern accent named Lola—were painting in relative silence in the studio. Their stations were crowded with paints and tools, like chaotic rainbows of creativity. Her section, in stark comparison, was spotlessly clean.
If only her mother could see that for once she had the cleanest workstation in the room.
Sadly, this wasn’t due to a newfound love of tidiness...but more because her Muse had refused to show up. She’d taken on more reception duties to avoid her creative block, but Sean would expect her to produce something eventually. After all, she should
