The paint is wet between his fingers. It's one of the things he likes best about his work: the feel of the paint squishing between his hands and the canvas. He'll use the brush eventually--to fill in some of the finer points, but for now, his hands are the only tools he needs.
The music blares in the background and thumps rhythmically in his head. It's the music he always chooses when he works. The kind he can lose himself in and get absorbed into his art.
Everything just makes so much more sense when he's painting, when he's creating. It's like the pieces of the puzzle that is his life come the closest to lining up and fitting together that they ever come.
He's just getting into a rhythm, getting the colors to blend together just right, when the phone rings. Slightly exasperated by the interruption, he sighs and wipes his hands on his thighs. His old overalls can take the abuse. They've seen their share of smeared paint. They've become a multi-colored, dried paint canvas of their own.
"Hello?" His voice is tighter than normal. He's anxious to return to his canvas and let the inspiration flow through him once again.
"Yes, is this Aiden Michaels?” The voice is female and business-like, almost brusque. He offers a word of assent, and she continues. “My name is Tatum Evans, and I'm interested in having a room in my condo painted. You were referred to me by a friend." She states the name of her friend, and he nods as if she can see him.
"Yes, I remember," he adds when he realizes his nod is wasted.
"Great. How soon can you start?"
He pauses and hopes she thinks he's checking his calendar.
"This week should work," he says after a few moments.
"That would be perfect. Do you think we could set up a time for you to come and look at the room and give me an estimate?" she asks.
Her voice now seems slightly unsure where it had been confident only moments before. He recognizes that it's his turn to assume the role of confident business man, and he clears his throat.
"Sure that'll be great." They agree on tomorrow, and he jots down her address on the back of a napkin.
As he hangs up the phone, he's anxious to get back to his canvas. He tosses the napkin aside and flips his music back on, closing his eyes as he tries to get the rhythm to flow through him again. Interruptions make it so hard for him to get his creativity going again. Although, he has to acknowledge he's grateful for the work. As much as he hates to admit it, the work he gets on the side as a house painter is what’s paying his bills right now. Just until he can get his work shown.
He sighs as he realizes it’s no use. His muse has fled with the ringing of the telephone, and she’ll not be coaxed back tonight. He shuts the music off again, for good this time, and strides to the sink to clean up. The water flows thickly over his hands as he rubs his rough palms and fingers until the paint begins to peel away. It creates a multi-colored whirlpool as it slides down the drain. After a few moments, he decides a shower is what he really needs, so he shuts off one tap only to turn on another in his loft’s tiny bathroom.
It’s later now, and he’s clean and fresh. He can still feel the water from his shower clinging to the hair that curls at the nape of his neck. It always takes so long to dry; he never bothers with it anymore. He’s sitting in the café that occupies the space below his loft. It’s late in the evening, and the coffeehouse has been transformed into a small club of sorts, just as it is every night. It’s full of people and the hum of conversation swells around him. He’s nursing the drink he ordered over an hour ago, not really making much progress with it. His thoughts are on the painting he’d been working on earlier. Something that he can’t quite put his finger on is bothering him, something that’s missing. He resolves to devote more time to it later.
He swirls the ice in his drink and brings his attention back to the conversation. His friends are passionate and involved, and it’s easy for him to immerse himself into their conversation.
It’s much later that night when he trudges up the stairs to his loft and makes his way over to the mattresses stacked in the corner. He passes his unfinished painting and sighs. Dissatisfied, but too tired to do anything about it tonight, he flops onto the mattress, wriggling out of his pants and tossing them across the room.
In the dim light he can just see the painting, but it doesn’t matter. He’s stared at it for so long that it feels like it’s burned into the back of his eyelids. He can’t put his finger on what it is that’s bothering him about it, but something is unfinished.
***********************************
She sighs and presses her fingers into her temples. The numbers on the report in front of her seem to swim. She can’t make sense of any of the statistics she’s staring at. Frustrated, she tosses it across her desk and stands.
“Haley?” she calls.
“Yes, Ms. Evans?” Haley’s heels click against the linoleum as she hurries into her boss’ office.
“I’m leaving early today. I’m meeting a painter at my condo at two o’clock to get an estimate. Please have my calls forwarded to my cell phone.” As she speaks, Tatum Evans slides her feet back into her own high heeled shoes and fishes her bag out of the armoire that stands in the corner of her office. “I’ll be in tomorrow before eight, please have my agenda ready.”
Tatum eyes the girl sharply, and Haley nods, scribbling notes in her ever-present memo pad, and Tatum suppresses an eye-roll.
“Anything else?” Haley asks.
Tatum shakes her head and sighs as she glances at the watch on her left wrist. She curses silently and hurries to the door of her office. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”
Once in her car, she knows she has to speed in order to make it home by two o’clock. But her car is small and expensive and built for speed, and she maneuvers through the streets between her high-rise office building and her high-rise condo with ease. She slides into her parking space with five minutes to spare, and she has the elevator to herself as she makes her way up to her floor. She uses the small amount of time to check her email on her phone, the soft clicking of the electronic keys the only sound as she fires off a few short replies.
Her keys jingle against the metal door as she finds the right one and slides the lock back. She throws her bag on the counter, and she’s wondering if she has time to change clothes when her thoughts are interrupted by a knock on the door. Sighing, she crosses the floor and swings the door open.
The man standing on the other side of her door is young, probably a few years younger than she, and undeniably handsome, despite the shoulder length, curly hair that she normally finds unattractive. Somehow on him though, it’s fitting. He’s tall, a good six inches taller than she, at least, and she tilts her head to look at his face.
She knows that all of her observations have taken only a fraction of a second, but there’s still some awkwardness in the air as he smiles slightly at her.
“Are you Ms. Evans?” he asks, lifting one eyebrow at her. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other as he waits for her to respond, and she glances down at his form for a split second before answering.
“Yes, you must be Aiden?” she asks, tearing her eyes away from him finally.
He nods and she steps aside to let him in. His eyes move around the room and she knows he’s taking in her luxury apartment. She clears her throat. “Please follow me.”
She leads him into the room she uses for her office while she’s at home. There are floor to ceiling bookshelves on one wall, but the other three walls are bare and plain white.
“This is the room I’d like to have painted. I haven’t done anything with it since I moved in, and I’d like to give it some color.”
He nods as he looks around, craning his neck as he takes in the vaulted ceilings and recessed lighting. “Do you want the ceiling painted too?”
She hasn’t thought of that. She narrows her eyes and follows his gaze. “I’m not sure.”
“Do you have some colors in mind?”
She nods and moves to her desk where she slides open a drawer and pulls out the paint swatches she’s collected over the past few weeks. She fans them out on the desk, and Aiden steps closer to her, bending slightly as he examines the colors she’s chosen. She catches a whiff of him, and he smells clean and masculine, and it makes her head swim for just a moment before she remembers herself.
“There’s several. I guess I haven’t fully decided yet, but I think I like the ones on this swatch the best,” she says, pointing at the one closest to him. The swatch contains various shades of a warm pumpkin color that Tatum is particularly fond of. “I think it’ll compliment the dark wood of the shelves and my desk.”
Aiden nods, bringing his hand up to scrub his chin, and the room is so completely silent that Tatum can hear the gentle scratching sound his rough fingers make against the dark stubble that resides there.
“Yeah,” he says, nodding. “I think you’re right. I’d pick that one.” He points to the hue in the middle of the paint swatch, and for some reason, this makes up Tatum’s mind.
She nods her agreement. “Okay, when can you start?” As soon as the words are out of her mouth she realizes they haven’t even discussed his fee. This oversight is not like her. She’s known for being a shrewd bargainer. It’s part of what got her to where she is today.
Her oversight is obviously not lost on him. He quirks his eyebrow at her and smiles a little half smile. “Don’t you think we should discuss money first?” Something about his tone unnerves her, and she curses herself.
“Of course, I apologize. I just assumed you’d charge me the same that you charged my friend,” she lies, hoping that her expression and confident tone will cover for her error.
He eyes her for a moment, his expression unfathomable, and then shrugs. “Okay, that seems fair. It’s about the same size room. You’ll need to buy all the supplies though. That was the deal with Sharon.”
“Sounds fine. Can you start tomorrow? I can be home by five.”
He eyes her for a moment. “Five in the afternoon?”
“Yes.”
“I’d rather start in the morning, if it’s all the same to you,” he says, shrugging as he leans against her desk.
“I can’t be here in the morning. I have to work.”
“You could leave a key with your doorman. I can probably have this room done in one day if I start early enough.”
She eyes him for a moment. Finally she says, “I’m sorry, I don’t feel comfortable with anyone having access to my place when I’m not present. I don’t mind if it takes two days.”
He’s silent for a moment before his expression slides from friendly to slightly hostile. Finally, he shrugs. “Suit yourself. It’s not like I’m going to take anything.”
She’s bewildered for a moment about how she could have possibly insulted him. Is it normal for people to let strangers into their homes unattended? She’s not sure. She decides to ignore his bizarre offense and dismisses it with a wave of her hand. “No, I’m sure you wouldn’t, I’d just feel more comfortable being here.”
“Fine.”
“I’ll have my assistant pick up the paint tomorrow, and I’ll meet you back here at five. I assume you have your own supplies such as brushes and ladders and so forth.”
He nods, and she’s not sure what else to say, so she gestures for him to follow her back through the hallway and into her front room.
“Thank you, Aiden. I look forward to seeing you tomorrow,” she says, holding out a hand to him as she swings her front door open.
His expression is slightly amused, and once again, she’s confused by his reaction. He eyes her hand for a moment before clasping it with his own. His palm feels warm against her own, and just as she’d predicted earlier, his skin has the rough texture of someone who earns their living with their hands.
“See you tomorrow,” he says, and his voice is a low rumble.
He’s gone and she closes the door, feeling slightly off-balance, a rare feeling for Tatum Evans. She checks her watch and decides that she has time to return a few more emails and catch up on a few more things before calling it a day. She fishes her laptop out of her bag, kicks her heels off, and pads barefoot back to her office, feet silent against the hardwood floors. She slips behind her desk and opens up her computer. It hums softly as it comes back to life.
As she waits, she glances around the room. It will be nice to have some warmth and color in this room. She knows it’s only the first of many things she needs to do to her neglected condo, but it’s at least a start. Although she’s lived here for almost a year, it still doesn’t feel like home yet. But what does she expect of a place she pretty much uses only to sleep? With the long hours her job demands, she’s rarely home.
The sun is slanting through the shutters of the large window in her office and falling across her desk turning the dark wood a burnt honey color by the time she looks up from her computer. She yawns and stretches, but feels productive, and so she stands, snapping her laptop shut as she rises.
She makes her way to the kitchen, wondering what her fridge holds for her growling stomach. It doesn’t look promising as she stares into the barren depths. She sighs and slides open the drawer where she keeps her store of take-out menus.
As she’s reaching for her phone, she’s surprised when it rings. She sighs as she hits the button to answer the call.
“Hello, Peter,” she says dryly.
“Hey, gorgeous. How’s my favorite girl?”
She suppresses a groan. Her on again, off again casual relationship with Peter is fun at times, but other times it’s just taxing. Tonight is one of the times when she has a hard time remembering why she keeps him around.
“I’m fine, Peter. What can I do for you?” she works, and probably fails, to keep her weariness out of her voice.
“I was just wondering if you felt up to having some company tonight. I got done with my meetings earlier than I expected, and I find myself with a free evening.”
Tatum debates with herself for a moment. “Can you bring dinner?” she asks, only hating herself a little.
He agrees, and they hang up. Tatum decides to finally change and heads into her bedroom to find more comfortable clothes. The room is cool and dark, and she doesn’t bother to switch on a light as she makes her way to her walk-in closet. In the dim light from the hallway, she picks out a pair of yoga pants and a tank top from her dresser and slips out of the blouse and skirt she wore to the office, kicking them into the laundry basket in the corner of the closet.
She pulls the pins out of her long hair and lets it tumble down her back, sighing as she runs her fingers through it. She’s debating whether she should pour herself a glass of wine before Peter arrives. She’s beginning to regret telling him to come over, but when the doorbell rings and she lets him in, the smell of the food he’s carrying overwhelms her regret.
He stops for a moment to plant a slow and smoldering kiss on her lips before he sweeps past her and into the kitchen. He knows the way. She follows him and watches, slightly amused, as he pulls plates out of her cupboards, as if he lives here too. She makes a mental note to spend less time with him in the future. He’s getting too comfortable with their arrangement.
But for tonight, it doesn’t matter. He’s here, he brought food, and she’s determined to enjoy herself.
The music blares in the background and thumps rhythmically in his head. It's the music he always chooses when he works. The kind he can lose himself in and get absorbed into his art.
Everything just makes so much more sense when he's painting, when he's creating. It's like the pieces of the puzzle that is his life come the closest to lining up and fitting together that they ever come.
He's just getting into a rhythm, getting the colors to blend together just right, when the phone rings. Slightly exasperated by the interruption, he sighs and wipes his hands on his thighs. His old overalls can take the abuse. They've seen their share of smeared paint. They've become a multi-colored, dried paint canvas of their own.
"Hello?" His voice is tighter than normal. He's anxious to return to his canvas and let the inspiration flow through him once again.
"Yes, is this Aiden Michaels?” The voice is female and business-like, almost brusque. He offers a word of assent, and she continues. “My name is Tatum Evans, and I'm interested in having a room in my condo painted. You were referred to me by a friend." She states the name of her friend, and he nods as if she can see him.
"Yes, I remember," he adds when he realizes his nod is wasted.
"Great. How soon can you start?"
He pauses and hopes she thinks he's checking his calendar.
"This week should work," he says after a few moments.
"That would be perfect. Do you think we could set up a time for you to come and look at the room and give me an estimate?" she asks.
Her voice now seems slightly unsure where it had been confident only moments before. He recognizes that it's his turn to assume the role of confident business man, and he clears his throat.
"Sure that'll be great." They agree on tomorrow, and he jots down her address on the back of a napkin.
As he hangs up the phone, he's anxious to get back to his canvas. He tosses the napkin aside and flips his music back on, closing his eyes as he tries to get the rhythm to flow through him again. Interruptions make it so hard for him to get his creativity going again. Although, he has to acknowledge he's grateful for the work. As much as he hates to admit it, the work he gets on the side as a house painter is what’s paying his bills right now. Just until he can get his work shown.
He sighs as he realizes it’s no use. His muse has fled with the ringing of the telephone, and she’ll not be coaxed back tonight. He shuts the music off again, for good this time, and strides to the sink to clean up. The water flows thickly over his hands as he rubs his rough palms and fingers until the paint begins to peel away. It creates a multi-colored whirlpool as it slides down the drain. After a few moments, he decides a shower is what he really needs, so he shuts off one tap only to turn on another in his loft’s tiny bathroom.
It’s later now, and he’s clean and fresh. He can still feel the water from his shower clinging to the hair that curls at the nape of his neck. It always takes so long to dry; he never bothers with it anymore. He’s sitting in the café that occupies the space below his loft. It’s late in the evening, and the coffeehouse has been transformed into a small club of sorts, just as it is every night. It’s full of people and the hum of conversation swells around him. He’s nursing the drink he ordered over an hour ago, not really making much progress with it. His thoughts are on the painting he’d been working on earlier. Something that he can’t quite put his finger on is bothering him, something that’s missing. He resolves to devote more time to it later.
He swirls the ice in his drink and brings his attention back to the conversation. His friends are passionate and involved, and it’s easy for him to immerse himself into their conversation.
It’s much later that night when he trudges up the stairs to his loft and makes his way over to the mattresses stacked in the corner. He passes his unfinished painting and sighs. Dissatisfied, but too tired to do anything about it tonight, he flops onto the mattress, wriggling out of his pants and tossing them across the room.
In the dim light he can just see the painting, but it doesn’t matter. He’s stared at it for so long that it feels like it’s burned into the back of his eyelids. He can’t put his finger on what it is that’s bothering him about it, but something is unfinished.
***********************************
She sighs and presses her fingers into her temples. The numbers on the report in front of her seem to swim. She can’t make sense of any of the statistics she’s staring at. Frustrated, she tosses it across her desk and stands.
“Haley?” she calls.
“Yes, Ms. Evans?” Haley’s heels click against the linoleum as she hurries into her boss’ office.
“I’m leaving early today. I’m meeting a painter at my condo at two o’clock to get an estimate. Please have my calls forwarded to my cell phone.” As she speaks, Tatum Evans slides her feet back into her own high heeled shoes and fishes her bag out of the armoire that stands in the corner of her office. “I’ll be in tomorrow before eight, please have my agenda ready.”
Tatum eyes the girl sharply, and Haley nods, scribbling notes in her ever-present memo pad, and Tatum suppresses an eye-roll.
“Anything else?” Haley asks.
Tatum shakes her head and sighs as she glances at the watch on her left wrist. She curses silently and hurries to the door of her office. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”
Once in her car, she knows she has to speed in order to make it home by two o’clock. But her car is small and expensive and built for speed, and she maneuvers through the streets between her high-rise office building and her high-rise condo with ease. She slides into her parking space with five minutes to spare, and she has the elevator to herself as she makes her way up to her floor. She uses the small amount of time to check her email on her phone, the soft clicking of the electronic keys the only sound as she fires off a few short replies.
Her keys jingle against the metal door as she finds the right one and slides the lock back. She throws her bag on the counter, and she’s wondering if she has time to change clothes when her thoughts are interrupted by a knock on the door. Sighing, she crosses the floor and swings the door open.
The man standing on the other side of her door is young, probably a few years younger than she, and undeniably handsome, despite the shoulder length, curly hair that she normally finds unattractive. Somehow on him though, it’s fitting. He’s tall, a good six inches taller than she, at least, and she tilts her head to look at his face.
She knows that all of her observations have taken only a fraction of a second, but there’s still some awkwardness in the air as he smiles slightly at her.
“Are you Ms. Evans?” he asks, lifting one eyebrow at her. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other as he waits for her to respond, and she glances down at his form for a split second before answering.
“Yes, you must be Aiden?” she asks, tearing her eyes away from him finally.
He nods and she steps aside to let him in. His eyes move around the room and she knows he’s taking in her luxury apartment. She clears her throat. “Please follow me.”
She leads him into the room she uses for her office while she’s at home. There are floor to ceiling bookshelves on one wall, but the other three walls are bare and plain white.
“This is the room I’d like to have painted. I haven’t done anything with it since I moved in, and I’d like to give it some color.”
He nods as he looks around, craning his neck as he takes in the vaulted ceilings and recessed lighting. “Do you want the ceiling painted too?”
She hasn’t thought of that. She narrows her eyes and follows his gaze. “I’m not sure.”
“Do you have some colors in mind?”
She nods and moves to her desk where she slides open a drawer and pulls out the paint swatches she’s collected over the past few weeks. She fans them out on the desk, and Aiden steps closer to her, bending slightly as he examines the colors she’s chosen. She catches a whiff of him, and he smells clean and masculine, and it makes her head swim for just a moment before she remembers herself.
“There’s several. I guess I haven’t fully decided yet, but I think I like the ones on this swatch the best,” she says, pointing at the one closest to him. The swatch contains various shades of a warm pumpkin color that Tatum is particularly fond of. “I think it’ll compliment the dark wood of the shelves and my desk.”
Aiden nods, bringing his hand up to scrub his chin, and the room is so completely silent that Tatum can hear the gentle scratching sound his rough fingers make against the dark stubble that resides there.
“Yeah,” he says, nodding. “I think you’re right. I’d pick that one.” He points to the hue in the middle of the paint swatch, and for some reason, this makes up Tatum’s mind.
She nods her agreement. “Okay, when can you start?” As soon as the words are out of her mouth she realizes they haven’t even discussed his fee. This oversight is not like her. She’s known for being a shrewd bargainer. It’s part of what got her to where she is today.
Her oversight is obviously not lost on him. He quirks his eyebrow at her and smiles a little half smile. “Don’t you think we should discuss money first?” Something about his tone unnerves her, and she curses herself.
“Of course, I apologize. I just assumed you’d charge me the same that you charged my friend,” she lies, hoping that her expression and confident tone will cover for her error.
He eyes her for a moment, his expression unfathomable, and then shrugs. “Okay, that seems fair. It’s about the same size room. You’ll need to buy all the supplies though. That was the deal with Sharon.”
“Sounds fine. Can you start tomorrow? I can be home by five.”
He eyes her for a moment. “Five in the afternoon?”
“Yes.”
“I’d rather start in the morning, if it’s all the same to you,” he says, shrugging as he leans against her desk.
“I can’t be here in the morning. I have to work.”
“You could leave a key with your doorman. I can probably have this room done in one day if I start early enough.”
She eyes him for a moment. Finally she says, “I’m sorry, I don’t feel comfortable with anyone having access to my place when I’m not present. I don’t mind if it takes two days.”
He’s silent for a moment before his expression slides from friendly to slightly hostile. Finally, he shrugs. “Suit yourself. It’s not like I’m going to take anything.”
She’s bewildered for a moment about how she could have possibly insulted him. Is it normal for people to let strangers into their homes unattended? She’s not sure. She decides to ignore his bizarre offense and dismisses it with a wave of her hand. “No, I’m sure you wouldn’t, I’d just feel more comfortable being here.”
“Fine.”
“I’ll have my assistant pick up the paint tomorrow, and I’ll meet you back here at five. I assume you have your own supplies such as brushes and ladders and so forth.”
He nods, and she’s not sure what else to say, so she gestures for him to follow her back through the hallway and into her front room.
“Thank you, Aiden. I look forward to seeing you tomorrow,” she says, holding out a hand to him as she swings her front door open.
His expression is slightly amused, and once again, she’s confused by his reaction. He eyes her hand for a moment before clasping it with his own. His palm feels warm against her own, and just as she’d predicted earlier, his skin has the rough texture of someone who earns their living with their hands.
“See you tomorrow,” he says, and his voice is a low rumble.
He’s gone and she closes the door, feeling slightly off-balance, a rare feeling for Tatum Evans. She checks her watch and decides that she has time to return a few more emails and catch up on a few more things before calling it a day. She fishes her laptop out of her bag, kicks her heels off, and pads barefoot back to her office, feet silent against the hardwood floors. She slips behind her desk and opens up her computer. It hums softly as it comes back to life.
As she waits, she glances around the room. It will be nice to have some warmth and color in this room. She knows it’s only the first of many things she needs to do to her neglected condo, but it’s at least a start. Although she’s lived here for almost a year, it still doesn’t feel like home yet. But what does she expect of a place she pretty much uses only to sleep? With the long hours her job demands, she’s rarely home.
The sun is slanting through the shutters of the large window in her office and falling across her desk turning the dark wood a burnt honey color by the time she looks up from her computer. She yawns and stretches, but feels productive, and so she stands, snapping her laptop shut as she rises.
She makes her way to the kitchen, wondering what her fridge holds for her growling stomach. It doesn’t look promising as she stares into the barren depths. She sighs and slides open the drawer where she keeps her store of take-out menus.
As she’s reaching for her phone, she’s surprised when it rings. She sighs as she hits the button to answer the call.
“Hello, Peter,” she says dryly.
“Hey, gorgeous. How’s my favorite girl?”
She suppresses a groan. Her on again, off again casual relationship with Peter is fun at times, but other times it’s just taxing. Tonight is one of the times when she has a hard time remembering why she keeps him around.
“I’m fine, Peter. What can I do for you?” she works, and probably fails, to keep her weariness out of her voice.
“I was just wondering if you felt up to having some company tonight. I got done with my meetings earlier than I expected, and I find myself with a free evening.”
Tatum debates with herself for a moment. “Can you bring dinner?” she asks, only hating herself a little.
He agrees, and they hang up. Tatum decides to finally change and heads into her bedroom to find more comfortable clothes. The room is cool and dark, and she doesn’t bother to switch on a light as she makes her way to her walk-in closet. In the dim light from the hallway, she picks out a pair of yoga pants and a tank top from her dresser and slips out of the blouse and skirt she wore to the office, kicking them into the laundry basket in the corner of the closet.
She pulls the pins out of her long hair and lets it tumble down her back, sighing as she runs her fingers through it. She’s debating whether she should pour herself a glass of wine before Peter arrives. She’s beginning to regret telling him to come over, but when the doorbell rings and she lets him in, the smell of the food he’s carrying overwhelms her regret.
He stops for a moment to plant a slow and smoldering kiss on her lips before he sweeps past her and into the kitchen. He knows the way. She follows him and watches, slightly amused, as he pulls plates out of her cupboards, as if he lives here too. She makes a mental note to spend less time with him in the future. He’s getting too comfortable with their arrangement.
But for tonight, it doesn’t matter. He’s here, he brought food, and she’s determined to enjoy herself.