Tweaking Mr. Right

TMR: Chapter 8

Eight

Nine-forty-five Tuesday morning. He's late.

I opened the door with force. Nearly an hour of waiting and fuming had taken its toll. "You're late," I snarled.

"Pick a card, any card," he said in return, grinning down at me. A fanned-out deck of cards flashed in his hands. I let out a patient breath and took a card. Queen of Diamonds.

"Don't let me see it. Put it back," he said, still smiling. I did as he said. He shuffled a few times, spread the cards again, face up, and pulled out the Queen of Diamonds. Was I supposed to be impressed?

"Is this your card?"

I tilted my head at him and gently took the deck of cards from his fingers. A quick scan and I found what I was looking for. I held up the Three of Clubs. "Is this your marker?"

"So you know that one?"

I gave him his toys and stepped aside. He came in, still smelling of vinegar. "You use acetic acid," I commented as I closed the door.

"What?" He turned around.

"You smell like vinegar."

He lifted his shirt and sniffed. "Oh, sorry. I was working pretty late."

"That's okay. I'm kind of used to it by now." I gave him a small smile and pointed down the hall, my irritation gone. "This way."

He unslung a large book bag from shoulder and set it in the floor of the entry before following. He wore the same old jeans from yesterday, but at least he had changed his shirt. His hair was tousled and he needed a shave. He was gorgeous. As long as he kept his mouth shut, this seduction thing might work out after all.

In my studio, he looked around with a sweeping glance. "Damn."

"What is it?" I looked around the room. After Mat left yesterday evening, I dappled with some impressionism techniques and looked over Jam Marcea's directions and requirements for the fifth time. Cora came home from work to find me sitting on the floor surrounded by pages and pages of painting samples, email printouts, and various sketches and illustrations. I was still sitting there when she went to bed that night, and when she had shaken my sleeping form this morning amongst the clutter on the studio floor, several of the samples had stuck to me, getting paint in my hair. I had to make a mad dash of organizing and cleaning before taking a shower and composing myself.  

Leland looked at me properly for the first time. "Damn," he swore softly to himself, and then answered my question, "You always keep a clean workspace?"  

I looked down to what he was staring at. I chose my clothes thoughtfully this morning. A V-neck blouse that hugged the curves of my breasts and waist, and a pair of form-fitting, cropped jeans. And no shoes. Leland seemed to have a thing for my bare feet. And I was going to need all the extra help I could get in order for him to make the first move.

Mat had a point. I needed to seduce him, sleep with him, and then get on with my work. He stood in my home, had not said one rude word so far, and I wanted to jump him right then and there.

"Not really," I answered honestly. "But I didn't think you would like to be stepping over sketches and painting samples all day."

"Well, since we are not going to be here all day, it wouldn't have mattered," he replied. He saw my large easel sitting in the corner. A tarp was thrown over the canvas. He picked up the corner to peek under. "What's this?"