Artbeat

Chapter X

- CARSON -

The man was a vision of masculinity that arrested my attention, even from afar. His tall, imposing frame commanded space, and his beautiful features are chiseled in a way that makes my heart skip a beat.

Ash brown hair, styled perfectly, added a touch of sophistication to his overall demeanor. The subtle waves and texture of his locks invite my gaze to linger, imagining the way the light would dance through them if I were to capture him on canvas.
Stop it.

But it's his eyes that truly hold me captive. Grayish green, like the misty meadow at dawn I love to paint, they seem to hold a depth, a mystery, that I'm desperate to unravel. They sparkle with a quiet intensity, as if they hold secrets and stories I can only begin to imagine. Stop it now.

His physique is honed, athletic, and his smart casual outfit accentuates every muscle. The rolled-up sleeves of his shirt, with two buttons undone, reveal a glimpse of his chest. Maeve, look away, idiot.

There's an air of confidence, of quiet assurance, about him that draws me in, even from a distance. He exudes a sense of authority and of creative power.

I quickly break eye contact, feeling a sudden surge of discomfort. His intense gaze made me feel like an insect under a microscope. Okay, Earth, that's your que. Swallow me now.
I turn around and made my way to anywhere with a closed door. I felt his eyes still on me as I rushed, feeling like I'd fall and embarrass myself in my two inch heels.

I need some fresh air.
I push open the door to the restroom I had a random urge to run away to. I step inside and feel a sense of relief wash over me. The cool, quiet space is a welcome respite from the crowded, overwhelming exhibition hall. I take a deep breath, one I didn't know I was holding all along, letting the calmness of the restroom wash over me.

But as I stand there, staring at my reflection in the mirror, I can't shake the feeling that the man's eyes are still on me, boring into my skin like a cold, hard stare. I shiver, despite the warmth of the room, and wonder why I'm letting a stranger's gaze get to me like this. But a familiar one.

Minutes later, the sudden influx of chatter and laughter startles me. A group of ladies bursts into the restroom, their lively conversation filling the small space.

The women, likely attendees of the exhibition, continue chatting as they make their way into the individual stalls. Their voices echo through the room, a cacophony of sounds that shatter the peaceful atmosphere I had found a little bit of solace in.

I watch as they disappear into their respective stalls, the doors clicking shut behind them.
The sudden commotion broke the spell, and I'm reminded of where I am.

I take a deep breath, shaking off the lingering thoughts of the man's gaze.
I heard the women's chatter begin again in the stall doors. Apparently the stalls' walls were not enough to stop their conversation for more than a moment.
Their gossip and chatter echoed  through the small space. I try to tune them out, but their words catch my attention, piquing my curiosity.

"Kayden Pierce had never shown his face to the world before," one of them says, her voice barely above a whisper.

"No one knew the face behind the art and talent," another woman chimes in. "But he decides to show up today. This is like groundbreaking news!"

"And to top it off, he's breathtakingly hot", the third woman said, but with a tone less excited and more neutral than the other two.

Their words raise more questions in my mind. I never knew all this, but I had noticed how I couldn't find a single picture of Kayden Pierce when I researched his work.
His art was everywhere, but his face was eerily absent.

The women continue to gossip, their voices a constant hum in the background. I can't help but wonder what else they know, what secrets they're sharing behind the safety of their stall doors.
My mind starts racing, piecing together the fragments of information, trying to form a complete picture.

Who is Kayden Pierce, really?

Why has he chosen to reveal himself now?

The questions swirl in my head, refusing to let me go, as I stand there, staring at the reflection of my half covered face, surrounded by the whispers and speculations of the women around me.

After a decent amount of time, the ladies exited their stalls. They converged on the sinks, their movements a blur of activity. One reapplies lipstick, the bright red color stark against her pale skin, while another fusses with her hair, adjusting the strands to perfection.

I watch, mesmerized, as they primp and preen, their actions a proof of the human desire to present ourselves in the best possible light.

And then, my gaze falls on myself. I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror again, and my eyes widen a little in surprise. My hair, once neatly secured in a bun, now looks slightly disheveled, a few stray strands framing my face.

I reach up, combing through it with my fingers, trying to at least look decent. The tangles and knots resist my efforts.

One of the three ladies, who was engrossed in fixing her hair, catches my gaze and notices my struggles with my own locks. Without missing a beat, she reaches out and hands me a brush, her eyes still fixed on her reflection. I'm taken aback, unsure how to react, and I hesitate for a moment.

The woman's gaze flicks to mine, and she gestures with the brush, her expression neutral. It's not a smile, but nor is it unkind. It's a simple, practical gesture, as if to say, "Here, you clearly need this more than I do."

I take the brush, our fingers touching briefly, and she returns to primping her hair, seemingly unaware of the small act of kindness she's just shown me.

I'm struck by the simplicity of the moment as I begin to brush my hair, making it quick just in case she would want to leave any moment from now.

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