Annabelle found herself hating Thomas Eames more and more as the days wore on.
She hated his cockiness.
She detested his over confidence.
She despised how sure he was of himself. Emotionally, mentally and sexually.
She'd witnessed more than enough of her friends fall victim to his charm, wit and sexual appeal. Of course, she'd noticed a pattern immediately. Eames was incredibly good at picking up on mannerisms, likes and dislikes, and would quickly adapt his own behaviour accordingly.
Her ex friend Vicky had been extremely attracted to shy, intellectual boys who had Australian accents. The next day Eames had shown up, glasses on, answering every question the professor could throw at him, speaking in a very convincing Australian accent. He'd fucked Vicky that night.
Annabelle smirked as she walked to her course. She was very much immune to Eames' games, and coincidentally she was the only girl in the course who hadn't fallen victim to his "antics"
"Morning," she heard an English accent say. She wasn't even sure if that was his real accent. She had been telling her friend Nicole that she found guys with English accents incredibly attractive. A sneer was already planted on her face when she looked up. Eames was leaning on her desk, dressed in a pair of tight fitting grey pants, blue and grey striped shirt which was rolled up to his elbows and wearing shoes that were way too smart for a college course.
"Can I help you?" Anna asked condescendingly.
"Ooh, condescension, sexy," he replied huskily, resting his elbows on the desk. Anna found him utterly repulsive at this point, and decided that now would be a perfect time to leave. Gathering up her books she started to walk towards the door. Eames shrugged.
"You aren't my type anyway," he smirked, making sure everyone present could hear him.
Anna froze, spine tingling with frustration and anger at the asshole standing behind her. She slowly and calmly turned around and placed her books on the desk.
"And what might your type be, Mr Eames? Sluts who fall in line to get fucked by you?" She spat maliciously, hand on hip.
"Well, I can safely say that my type is not girls who spend their Saturday nights eating ice cream, watching romantic movies and wishing they had a companion other than their cat," Eames responded flawlessly, matching her wit perfectly.
The silence in the room was deadly; electricity seemed to crackle between the two.
Eames wasn't surprised when he saw her arm drawback, but he had been expecting a slap, like he'd received from all the other girls, which is why the clenched fist hurtling towards him caught him off guard. He toppled to the ground, the force from Anna's well aimed punch sending him reeling.
"Let me tell you something, I wouldn't sleep with you if you were the last man on earth. I am literally repulsed by you," she said, the epitome of calm. Gathering her books she left quietly, leaving a dazed Eames on the floor with one thought in his mind.
I must have this girl.
Anna hadn't punched Eames because he was a cocky bastard. She'd punched him because what he'd said was true. She spent her Saturday nights alone, with her cat. Minus the ice cream and Eames would have painted a pretty accurate picture of her situation. Except for one minor detail. She didn't spend her nights watching romantic movies. On the contrary, she would pin up large sheets of drawing paper on her walls. And she would sketch. Buildings, landscapes, houses, apartments. Whatever entered her head would end up enlarged on a sheet of paper. Sometimes, if she was really bored, she would bring out her sculpting tools, and create cities. Beautiful cities. Her attention to detail astounded visitors sometimes. They'd "ooh" and "ah" at miniature people sitting in a coffee shop. She couldn't understand why they were so amazed. It was like child's play for her.
It didn't mean that it wasn't lonely. The one thing she yearned for was an equal. Someone to make competent comments on her work. Someone she could trust. Someone she could love.
Despite Eames' brutal words, Anna decided that she was not going to stop doing what she enjoyed.
So that night Anna pinned up a large sheet of drawing paper against her window, the last rays of afternoon sunlight illuminating the white until it almost glowed. Charcoal in hand, she began to sketch the skeleton of a house. The house began to take shape. Squinted windows, chubby door, Anna was feeling the rhythm of her strokes as a thatched roof came into being. Just as the feeling of being one with the house was entering her body the doorbell rang.
Anna groaned in frustration. Only an architect would understand that being disturbed is the worst thing you can do to an artist.
Placing the charcoal down on a sheet of newspaper she made her way to the door. The second she opened the door someone pushed past her and walked calmly and nonchalantly into her lounge room. The smell of cologne, leather and rain was all she had to identify her uninvited guest by. The guest whistled, chuckled and turned to look at Anna, who had a look of confusion plastered on her face.
"These are actually pretty good," Eames said, running his finger along a line of charcoal on the paper, making Anna's spine tingle and eyes flare.
"What are you doing in my house?" she said calmly, fury like a dressing over her words.
"Oh, just thought I'd pop over, see what you're doing," he replied casually, slipping his jacket off and draping it over the arm chair. "And now that I'm here, I suppose I'd better help you with this work,"
Eames rolled his sleeves up to his elbows, and grabbing the charcoal started making Anna's harsh angles much softer.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?" she cried in dismay, snatching the charcoal from his hands and making the lines harsh and straight again. Once she was satisfied, she turned to him. "Get the fuck out of my house," she commanded.
"What, you don't want to discuss building materials, and location choice, and why your harsh lines don't suit the overall feel of the house?" he remarked, gesturing towards her work.
Anna knew that her lines had always been too harsh. It was a fundamental flaw of hers. But she didn't want Thomas Eames telling her that.
"Get out," she ordered, pointing towards the door. Eames obliged, walking slowly to the front door. Without so much as a goodbye, she slammed the door in his face.
Back in the lounge it wasn't long before she realised something.
"Fuck, the dickhead left his jacket," she muttered in disdain, holding the brown jacket at arm's length. At that moment the door bell rang for a second time that night. Opening the door Anna wasn't surprised to see Eames standing outside.
"I left my jacket," he stated, a smirk pulling up the corners of his mouth.
Anna thrust the jacket into his hands, and tried to slam the door again. Eames however wedged his foot between the door and door frame.
"Please, let me spend one evening with you drawing," he pleaded.
Anna grumbled, having a short debate with herself in her mind. Arguments such as "he's an obnoxious asshole who's just trying to get lucky," and "fuck him, let him keep wanting you," almost tempted her to crush his foot, but one simple sentence caught her off guard.
He knows stuff about architecture.
The last time Anna had held a decent architectural conversation with someone was god knows how long ago. Cursing under her breath, she opened the door, and gestured for him to enter.
His smirk turned into a genuine grin, and Eames strode proudly into her house, head held high.
"First things first, what food and wine do you have on the premises?" Eames asked, placing his jacket back over the armchair.
Anna frowned. Despite the fact that she was an amazing artist, the same could not be said for her culinary skills.
"Um, well, you'll have to check in the fridge for food, wine, I might have a bottle of red somewhere, why?" she asked, confusion distorting her figures.
Eames walked briskly into the kitchen.
"Because we cannot have a proper discussion about architecture without wine and good food," he explained, opening the fridge.
Anna smiled incredulously as Eames pulled out some crackers, cream cheese, smoked salmon and capers. His hands moved delicately as he placed a small slice of salmon on a cracker, a smear of cheese on the salmon and a caper or two on the cheese. Eventually he had compiled a large plate of crackers, and Anna was salivating.
Eames carried the plate into the lounge, took the bottle of red from Anna's hands, dimmed the lights and poured two large glasses of wine.
"First things first," Eames began, placing a cracker in his mouth as he sat on Anna's floor. "Your lines are much too thick and harsh,"
Anna rolled her eyes. Great. Now he was pointing out her flaws.
"But, your designs are amazing, the house looks like it has a personality about to jump out," he explained, struggling to find the words to describe her work.
Anna blushed. No one had ever described her work like that.
"Do you do anything else, besides architectural designs?" he asked as she sat opposite him.
"I... dabble in figure drawing," she said sheepishly, taking a sip of her too sweet and very alcoholic wine.
Eames raised an eyebrow.
"Is that so? Well why don't you display your talent darling," he said majestically, purposely emphasising the darling.
Eames simply dismissed the term of endearment as "an old habit". She knew Eames was challenging her, seeing if she would attempt to prove him wrong.
Normally she would ignore him, but tonight, maybe it was the wine, maybe it was the food, maybe it was the way the warm light was reflected in Eames' green-blue eyes, or the way it highlighted his cheekbones, the way the wine left his lips moist and red... Who knows. But Anna smirked, pulled out a sketch pad and began to sketch Eames' face.
Soon after she turned the sketch book around to face Eames. She wasn't one hundred percent sure, but for a second she thought she saw a falter in his smirk, replaced with a look of surprise. But she blinked, and the smirk was back.
"It looks nothing like me, the drawing is way too handsome," he said sarcastically.
Anna turned the drawing around, and looked at it. She thought it looked exactly like Eames.
"You look just as handsome as it," she replied, blushing as soon as she realised what she had inadvertently told Eames with that statement. Eames was looking at her intently now, his blue-green eyes trying to make contact with hers.
"Are you suggesting that I'm handsome?" he whispered huskily, inching closer to her.
Anna didn't reply, nor did she dare meet his gaze.
He gestured for her to hand over the sketch book and pencil.
"Now it's my turn," he explained, gesturing for her to lie down on the beanbag.
Anna watched, bemused as he sketched softly and gently. No wild movements, no large arcs. Just soft, small gentle strokes.
A smile broke out on her face, but she was immediately instructed by Eames to stop. Evidently he wasn't accustomed to the fact that subjects find it difficult to stay completely still for a long period of time.
Finally he finished. The smirk was gone, replaced with a small, humble smile. Eames turned the sketch book around, exposing his work to her. He had captured the light shining on the side of her face perfectly. His soft shading made her portrait jump off the page, like a carbon copy of her was sitting in the sketch book.
Anna was amazed, gobsmacked and breathless at the same time.
She reached out a hand to touch the portrait, but Eames gently grasped her fingers in his hand, his warm palm cradling her cold fingers.
Anna let her eyes wander up to Eames' face, where she was shocked to see that his smirk was now gone completely, leaving no sign of ever existing. Instead, Eames was gazing at her with a look she had never seen before. A look of absolute love.
"I will never be able to capture your true beauty," he whispered sincerely, raising her fingers to his lips, where he kissed them gently.
After this, Eames rose, dragging Anna with him. He picked up his jacket and placed it around his shoulders.
At the door he turned to Anna.
"Thank you for letting me in," he said, releasing Anna's fingers. The second they were gone Anna wished for the warmth of his hand, and so, she took his hand again and wrapped it around hers.
"You're welcome," she whispered, entranced as Eames stroked the side of her face, then slowly brought his face closer to hers. Once they were millimetres apart he hesitated, his breath mingling with hers, then gently pressed his lips against hers.
He left quietly, a small smile playing on his lips.
Once Eames was out of sight Anna closed the door. One thought was plaguing her mind.
Thomas Eames isn't as bad as she originally thought.