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Story Title: Neon Forks
Pen name: SuzsPetals
Disclaimer: All characters belong to Stephenie Meyer, but the story and artists in Neon Forks are mine.
To view all other entries for the "Don't Mess With the Help Contest" visit the C2 community here www(dot)fanfiction(dot)net/~dontmesswiththehelpcontest
I took a little break from The Family Business to dabble in some art – my true love, before Twilight and Edward, of course. I'm sending out embarrassing hugs to texaskatherine who beta'd for me and cracked the whip when I had trouble switching characters and stories. Enjoy!
Neon Forksby SuzsPetals ©2010
Chapter 1Bella dipped the fine sable brush into the orange paint, then gently ran it against the lip of the jar. Careful not to waste any — one jar of the stuff cost more than a full tank of gas for her truck — she transferred the hideous hue to the canvas with a steady hand. After painting tine number ninety-six on the twenty-fourth fork of the work laughably dubbed as art, she sat back and exhaled loudly.
Not coincidentally, she questioned for the ninety-sixth time that day the veracity of her decision to take this job. It was selling out, plain and simple, as far as she was concerned, and that was not the way she wanted to begin her career as a serious artist.
Bella Swan was a twenty-five year old post grad student at The Art Institute of Chicago. Her original work and sharp mind were favored among her professors and she looked forward to getting her degree and finding respectable gallery representation. Unfortunately there were a few bumps in the road that served to detour her journey.
Detoured right into her own little hell also known as the studio of one E. A. Cullen, the excessively talented, soulless bastard.
She suspended the brush in the jar of equally expensive cleaning fluid and placed her hands on her hips, rotating her neck until it cracked and popped loudly in the large room. The music had stopped an hour earlier and she had been too focused to reset it. Besides, the studio was overbearingly hot and the least amount of movement was best. Her shirt was in a heap next to the easel and sweat lightly ringed the neck of her tank top. Although piled on top of her head, errant strands of Bella's hair clung damply to her cheeks and forehead.
The irony was that Cullen was one of the richest, most successful and recognized artists in Chicago and he was too cheap to pay for air conditioning in his enormous studios.
Inexplicably talented, cheap bastard.
Groaning, she stood and stretched before stepping back to survey the afternoon's work.
Yep, it's fucking hideous, she thought to herself. Therefore, it must be perfect.
Standing on the oversized custom easel was a four-foot square canvas. Most of it was painted by the uber-gifted Cullen — a profusion of abstract strokes and splashes of brilliance suggesting a mystical landscape. The rest of the piece, however, was courtesy of the now-jaded art student, Isabella Swan. Two dozen blindingly bright orange forks were painted in perfectly spaced rows across the mesmerizing background.
Forks. As in the pointy eating utensils; all bright orange and all painstakingly rendered by E.A. Cullen's pissed off intern. Must paying off unexpected medical bills require selling your artistic soul? Apparently so, she thought bitterly, staring at her embarrassing waste of talent.
"Number eight is slightly irregular."
Bella startled at the low, husky voice behind her, almost upending her table of paints and cleaners. Once she reined in her galloping heart, she turned to glower at the critic.
"Could you clear your throat or something before you take five years off my life again?" she asked, struggling to maintain a civil tone. Her employer stood before her, his hands in his jeans pockets, looking indifferent.
Cullen shrugged. "I can't help it if you're inattentive. I've been in the studio for some time. And number eight is irregular."
"You've been here? I didn't even hear you come in," she said, slightly shaken to realize he'd been in the same room and she didn't even know it. She prayed that none of her inner bitching had slipped out verbally.
His eyes shifted to the side and he shrugged again. "It's my studio, I have work to do. You were obviously engrossed." At least he looked pleased with her intensity when it came to debasing his work.
Sighing impatiently, Bella leaned in and scrutinized the eighth fork.
"Honestly, Mr. Cullen, it looks perfect."
"Fix it please," he replied and left the room without another comment.
Bella watched him leave, her mouth hanging open and emotions conflicted. She wanted to throw the sixty-dollar, obnoxious orange paint at him and she wanted to worship at his easel. At the same time. Why did he have to be such a complicated ass?
She recalled the fateful day her life intersected with the great artist.
Bella had been feeling pretty good about life, considering she had emerged walking & whole, from a catastrophic run-in with a van last year. It could have been a lot worse. Rushing to class with arms full of art supplies and head down, avoiding the blowing, bitter cold sleet, she didn't see the out-of-control vehicle until it careened across the ice and threw her ass over teakettle.
Her injuries were thankfully, easily fixed and she was back on her feet in a few weeks following the incident. However, without insurance the hospital stay and physical therapy bills were astronomical. The moron driving the van was of course uninsured and while she waited for lawyers to battle it out, she had debts to handle.
A visit to the student resources office provided a list of jobs and internships available that were all but humiliating. Bella was within throwing distance of her degree and couldn't bring herself to apply for work cleaning someone's studio. As she glared at the tine on persnickety number eight fork, she contemplated just how appealing swabbing someone's paint splattered floors sounded about now.
Stupid, gorgeous, creative genius.
Gianna, the temp filling in at the office that day, thought she'd throw a girl a favor and hand her a job listing before it hit the board and website. And, motherfuck, was it a doozey. Renowned, mega-famous, ultra-rich Chicago native son artist, E. A. Cullen, was looking for a responsible assistant who had exceptional painting skills for his studio. Considering his work went for upwards of half a million dollars in his select few galleries, Gianna and Bella were pretty confident the pay would be decent. And it was.
The question was, after two weeks of employment, if it was actually worth it. Highly debatable, thought Bella. She "fixed" the imaginary flaw and vowed to give it one more week before quitting.
Week 3 ~Bella wised up and brought her iPod to listen to, thereby avoiding the necessity of changing CDs and breaking her concentration. This week was lime green forks, after all, and required more focus and less interruption. She snorted out loud as she applied the last stroke of the offensive, aforementioned color to tine number forty-eight of fork number twelve. These forks were larger and spaced in a less symmetrical manner. It made all the difference in the world and Bella could definitely understand the six figure price tag on these particular paintings.
"Bullshit!" she sang in an operatic tone, waving the green tipped brush theatrically.
"What's bullshit?"
The narrow paint brush went flying across the room as Bella screeched and flung her hands out before clutching her chest.
"Why do you keep doing that? Seriously." Spinning on her stool to face Cullen, Bella leveled an angry glare while catching her breath. "I'm too young to die of a heart attack."
Instead of looking contrite or indifferent as he had in the past, the famous artist locked eyes with Bella, his own swimming with curiosity. She felt them draw her in but the waters looked dangerous.
Standing firmly on shore, she broke eye contact and glanced around the room. "Have you been here for awhile? Again?" she asked, struggling to keep the tremor out of her voice. The tug of his lip led her to believe she had failed.
"No. I just got here. Sorry I startled you," he added, sounding completely unapologetic. Then he threw her off track by asking, "What were you listening to and is 'bullshit' in the lyrics or was that your addition?"
He looked at her, his smoky hazel eyes burning with curious amusement. When she didn't answer right away his right eyebrow arched perfectly in question. She sighed in resignation.
"I was listening to Joan Armatrading, and no, there was no profanity in that particular song."
His eyes widened and he smiled appreciatively. "Not what I expected. Good taste. So, what was the 'bullshit' for?"
Bella wasn't sure whether to be insulted by his apparent surprise at her taste. Her play list was admittedly as schizophrenic as her employer but she wasn't about to tell him that. She also wasn't going to admit her inner editorial comments. "Nothing," she mumbled, as though being called out by a teacher for passing a note in class.
Unlike a teacher, however, E. A. Cullen tipped his head inquisitively and pulled her back into the dangerous current of his gaze. With irresistible intensity, he whispered, "Tell me. Please."
Her impulsive nature warred with her self-preservation as she considered whether to answer with complete honesty. Piss him off and she'd be lucky to sell art supplies at Jerry's Artarama next week. But his suddenly warm, entreating eyes begged her for an answer.
Haltingly, she confessed, "I— I was just thinking how unbelievable, I mean it's a little surprising really, that someone has already purchased this painting for a quarter of a million dollars."
As soon as the words were released, Bella desperately wished she could lasso them and return them to where they belonged: in her arrogant, self-destructive mind. As though thinking the same thing, Cullen's eyes hardened like cooling glass, but not before blazing with shock and maybe even anguish. It was all so fast, she couldn't be sure. Then his icy words put her firmly in her place.
"I'm sorry, Ms. Swan, I missed the press release. Do you have an opening I wasn't aware of? A major sale I should know about that would allow you to quit the tedium of painting for my studio?" His tight anger pushed her remorse out of the way as he turned and left the room, not waiting for an answer.
Bella sat there for a long minute. Her fiery indignation beat its chest and demanded a good, outraged huff, for chrissake. But try — no, beg — as she might, the only response that she could access to his vindictive words were hot, angry tears. She buried her face in her hands, hoping he was too long gone to hear her muffled, mortified sobs. It wouldn't be until later, at home, that she would see the neon green smears she left on her face in the process.
Once home, she kept up her head of steam and threw paint on the canvas as though she were inflicting damage. Her surreal style combining ultra-realism with subtle, abstract themes was served well by the conflicting emotions she was left with after her employer's harsh words.
One more week, Bella vowed to herself. That was it and she was out of there. The hospital would just have to accept smaller payments for a while.
Week 4 ~In spite of the awkward — painful for Bella — moment resulting from her brutal honesty, and his in kind, E.A. Cullen began appearing more regularly in the studio while Bella painted numerous fork tines and handles to his bizarre works of "art." They nodded curtly to one another and turned to focus on their respective projects. He, painting sublimely beautiful landscapes on huge canvases, while she methodically rendered symmetrical, blinding forks over those masterpieces, effectively ruining them as far as Bella was concerned.
Each fork, each tine seemed to bear down on her, making her inexplicably sad. She couldn't stand to look at him as she painstakingly followed his instructions with a brush and paint. As a result, she was oblivious to the similar melancholy in his expression.
"I looked at your portfolio," he blurted one afternoon, shocking Bella out of her confused reverie.
"What?" she asked with genuine bewilderment.
The renowned artist carefully replaced his palette knife to the suspension jar he had brilliantly rigged for his various tools. Rolling his shoulders and flexing his hands, he assumed an expression of casual indifference.
"I took a look at your portfolio," with a glance aside, he explained. "I had my outgoing assistant review the applicants, so I never actually saw your work. I was right to trust her judgment. You're very good." He shrugged, attempting to downplay his assessment.
It didn't work.
As much as his ridiculous artistic detour into florescent cutlery offended Bella, she knew the opinion this man — imaginative, meteorically rising, albeit difficult man — was something to be held in high esteem. Bella knew it and he knew it. The weight of his assessment expanded, filling the studio, and neither could maintain eye contact.
"Thank you," she finally choked out. "That means more to me than — well, it means a lot." She was unable to be any less honest than she had been with her embarrassing definition of bullshit the previous week. His eyes snapped to hers, surprised by her appreciation.
Narrowing with shrewdness, his expression became all business, throwing Bella even more off balance. "Where are you showing?" he asked, as though it were a matter of course. Bella resisted laughing out loud. Instead, she squared her shoulders and assumed an air of confidence that had nothing to do with reality.
"Well, I have a popular blog where I exhibit my paintings and a couple who collect my work will be holding a private reception later this month." She was momentarily distracted by her dazzling ability to enhance and embellish the truth so effortlessly. She sporadically posted her artwork in progress on a lame blog site she had set up months ago. Last week she reached a peak of eighteen hits — and that was only because she posted a photo of a tattoo she had reluctantly designed for a friend of a friend. The "private reception" was in fact a housewarming party at her best friends' new place where the five pieces of her creation would be shown. Because they hung on the walls. Alice and Jasper had purchased three of Bella's paintings and she had gifted two. Ergo, they were her best patrons.
As though he could see through Bella's inward, self-effacing disclaimers, Cullen smiled indulgently, amusement dancing in his eyes.
"Well, that's great, Bella. Do you think I could wrangle an invitation to this exclusive showing?" Bella started at the casual use of her first name. He seldom referred to her at all and when he did it was a formal, cold 'Ms. Swan.' She kept meaning to Google him and learn exactly what E.A. stood for, but by time she left the studio she was intent on pushing him — and this hideous job — out of her thoughts. As far as she was concerned, the initials meant Ersatz Artist. She pushed away the grudging reminder that she was an accomplice in his fraud.
Bella steadfastly ignored the warmth rising from her chest to her neck, up to her face, as his voice wrapped around her name like a scarf of spun silk.
Hey. The prick had you repaint a day-glo orange fork three times until it was 'perfect,' she reminded herself. Lying like the amateur she was, she faced him regretfully.
"Ooh, I don't know. It's a pretty private affair. But of course, I'll check with them," she added hastily upon seeing his incredulous — disappointed? — expression. She almost laughed out loud of the visual she had of Alice and Jasper shitting their pants if E.A. Cullen showed up at their modest home. They loved and appreciated art, although they dutifully sympathized with Bella's lot working with the famous, controversial artist.
With an oppositional reaction, Cullen's brow furrowed with serious consideration.
"I understand. Maybe you could pull some strings, see what you can do on my behalf."
He could have mocked her, given his outrageous fame. Any half-aware transient would know who he was. But he seemed genuinely humble, hopeful as he looked at Bella with a glimmer of anticipation.
She stared at him for a long moment trying to unravel the knot he had just handed her. He gazed back, guileless, as though he hadn't presented contradiction upon contradiction in the last twenty minutes, not to mention the last month. His mercurial moods threw her off balance and when she realized he was still awaiting an answer, she refocused on her brush, over-soaking it in cleaning fluid.
"Sure, uh-huh. Let me see what I can do."
He nodded officiously and returned to his work, absorbed and oblivious as Bella spent an inordinate amount of time watching his graceful fingers create magic. His strokes were economical, yet generous. With blinding speed he combined ochre and burnt umber to cut a swath of scorched earth across the span of oil washed canvas. She followed his confident hand as though enough observation would impart the knowledge, the secret she craved.
Bella's heart cringed with humility at the fear she would never achieve that kind of ease; that kind of ability. While unabashedly staring at his hands caressing the paintbrush, — making love to the canvas, really — she didn't see him stop in his work, looking back at her amused. And with an overcoat of steel.
"In the meantime, I'd appreciate it if you could finish my latest piece of bullshit," he said, looking at her pointedly before returning focus to his own work. "It sold today and I need to deliver it by the sixteenth."
The moment — connecting, warm, flattering even — had passed as she watched him concentrate on laying in a distant tree line. It was as though it never happened and her mouth worked soundlessly in an effort to respond.
In spite of close friends enthusiastically promoting her work or impressed professors giving her academic advice, Bella was all too aware of the mystical combination of good luck and hard work it took to launch a career in fine art.
Leaning back and squinting at the latest compilation of obnoxious forks, she had to wonder at how much stock E. A. Cullen had purchased of luck. Her upper lip curling before she had fully turned back to her project, Bella swore she would quit, in order to reclaim her fragile soul, next week. Definitely next week.
Week 5 ~Today's set of paintings had a smaller set of cutlery plastered on them so Bella was finished much quicker than usual. The studio was quiet and empty and she refrained from clapping with child-like glee as she pulled out a sketch pad and colored pencils. One of the biggest reasons for taking a position like this was the opportunity to learn and apprentice from a successful artist. Just because she considered half of his body of work to be self-indulgent crap didn't mean she could ignore a goldmine when presented. Three of Cullen's current surreal landscapes were on easels, awaiting varnish before their ultimate ruination.
The first one she crouched before held the suggestion of an African veldt, rich with umbers and a deep violet sky. She was eager to sketch the image before fuchsia forks danced and mocked across that sky. As she flicked her eyes quickly between the canvas and her pad, she would intermittently glance around the room. Bella knew how quiet Cullen could be and she fought the nagging feeling she had that he had entered the studio. But each time she looked around, the studio remained deserted.
Until she got too focused and unaware, of course.
"That looks good. Maybe I should have rendered them in pencil first."
All of her efforts to avoid being caught off guard were for naught. Bella jumped up several inches, sending the pencil box and drawing pad flying. Standing upright too quickly from her awkward kneeling position threw her off balance and she landed on her ass. Hard.
"Fuck!" she howled. She squeezed her eyes shut, mortified by the outburst in front of her employer. When she ventured a peek his concerned expression surprised her.
"Are you all right, Bella?" he asked with sincerity as he approached her, hand extended to help her up.
Again with the first name. Bella stared at his hand, momentarily distracted from her sore ass. It wasn't as though she thought he was a heartless bastard, but he was usually so carefully detached. Now he was looking at her with genuine worry.
"Uh, yeah, thanks," she answered finally, taking his proffered hand. He pulled Bella upright and shocked her even more when he gripped her shoulders and looked her up and down, seeming to access her wellbeing. With apparent reluctance he let go and took a step backward. Some of the distance returned, but his eyes remained warm as he apologized.
"I'm sorry I startled you. Again," he said with a rueful smile.
"'S okay," she muttered, brushing imaginary dust off her jeans. "I'll be sure to get you a bell for your birthday so it won't happen again." Although she meant it ironically, Cullen's eyes widened with evident humor.
"Why, B— Ms. Swan, I'm touched you would remember my birthday, much less get me anything."
Bella stammered for several moments before he interrupted, his eyes still twinkling with foreign amusement.
"I'm kidding, of course." He paused for a beat before adding, "A simple cake will suffice."
She abandoned all decorum after this uncharacteristic teasing, and huffed indignantly, placing her hands on her hips.
"That's it, then. Three bells on a nylon collar. Neon orange, of course," she added brazenly. For some reason she didn't feel the fear and embarrassment as she had in the past while prying her foot from her mouth. He had lowered some sort of professional wall and she wasted no time leaping over it. I also have no problem exploiting any and all metaphors at hand, she thought, inwardly rolling her eyes.
Her confidence faltered, however, as his expression rocked between disbelief, amusement and possibly anger. Bella wondered briefly how she had gotten this far in life without being smothered in her sleep, at the very least being dismissed from every position she'd ever held. Before she could throw herself on a sword, the moody artist grinned. Bella wasn't sure she had ever seen him smile broadly, but it looked amazingly natural on his face. The pleasure she felt shoot through her with the knowledge that she was the one who put the smile there was also entirely unexpected.
"Touché," he said, with no hint of sarcasm. The smile faded slowly as he walked away. "I'll let you get back to your sketching. I just wanted to see if you needed anything since the workload was light today." He glanced at the completed canvases with a barely concealed grimace. Bella worried he saw another imaginary flaw, but she was damned if she'd ask. He simply nodded at them and headed to the door. She turned to pick up the pencils and pad that had scattered with her grace, hoping to regain the momentum she had been cresting before her boss had appeared.
"Bella." Cullen called her name so softly, a shiver ran unsolicited down Bella's spine and tickled her lower abdomen. It was not an unpleasant sensation. She carefully rearranged her features before turning to him. He was, after all, a soulless, creative bastard and unfamiliar stirrings down there were not acceptable.
"Yes?" Damn it, she thought, that came out a little croakier than I had intended.
"Were you able to swing that invitation for me to your friends' art show?"
It was all she could do not to groan out loud. She fully expected him to forget, or at least drop it once he had obviously called her out on her embellished art career. She debated quickly on which answer would cause the least amount of humiliation in the long run.
"Sure," she exhaled with resignation. "It's next Saturday. I'll leave you the address and time before I go."
Cullen's eyes twinkled and he smiled with obvious pleasure. "That'll be fine," and he was gone.
Bella stood there, dumbfounded. She knew there was a complex, possibly brilliant artist beneath the arrogance, the selfish behavior, and the imaginary errors. She just didn't expect to catch that kind of glimpse, and to be — well, charmed — by it.
She swore under her breath thinking about the phone call she'd need to make to her best friend. Alice was going to freak when informed of a famous artist's possible appearance — but only momentarily. They both knew she adored a challenge. Bella seriously doubted he would show up at all, anyway. It was clear he was playing with her, trying to fluster her, no doubt to keep her in her place as a lowly intern when her mouth ran wildly out of control.
But, what if he did show? Anxiety crept into her subconscious as she gathered her supplies, too distracted to draw anymore today. Her five paintings would look ridiculous at the reception. She had just over a week to gather some existing work and get it adequately framed. She thought she ought to throw some money at Jasper and Alice too, so they could make a few fancier appetizers. What was the "in" wine these days?
Plagued by these concerns, Bella locked up and left the studio. Whispering between the lines was the familiar affirmation. Even if he's interested in the work, she thought, he's completely unstable and I'm out of here in a week. Two, tops.
Week 6 ~"He what?" Bella screeched as discretely as possible, considering she was in a shoebox of a kitchen and the subject of her ire was right around the corner. Alice cringed and looked sincerely remorseful as she handed Bella a large glass of wine. The bottle would have been a better move.
"I'm so sorry, honey! I've already kicked his ass from here to Sunday, I promise." Alice arched her eyebrows meaningfully, adding, "I may even withhold sex for a month after this stupidity."
That did it. Bella snorted and rolled her eyes, the tension releasing. "As if you could make it a week, you horny little bunnies."
Alice grinned, acknowledging the futility of her suggestion. "You're right. But we're both sorry. Jazz ran into Mike at racquetball on Monday and without thinking he mentioned the party. Mike made damn sure he got an invitation, willing or not. I promise to maneuver you both to opposite ends of the house all night."
Bella sighed theatrically and crossed her arms. "Fine. But if he makes a move on me, Jasper better kick his ass out or I'm leaving."
Alice giggled. "Oh, Bella, you can't bail on your own party. Especially if what's his name—" Bella's hand shot up, deterring her from finishing the sentence.
"I doubt he's coming, he never mentioned it again. Besides, it doesn't matter. He's an ass and I'm quitting next week. Probably." She pouted at Alice, saying, "I just want to have a fun time. I haven't seen Angela and Ben in ages and it looks like Jessica has a new boyfriend. That ought to be worth a few hours of gossip for us tomorrow."
Bella hugged her petite friend tightly. "And I have the bestest friends a girl could ask for. Thank you," she whispered fiercely. Alice returned the embrace equally as passionate.
"You deserve it, baby. I can't wait until the day I can toss my hair and say, 'oh, I knew Bella Swan back when. I'm her biggest patron, you know.'" Grabbing her hand, she said, "Come on now, you creative bitch. Let's mingle."
Bella downed half of the wine and followed Alice through the house to be flashed around like a celebrity. Before long, she even allowed that she was enjoying it a little. Jasper felt so bad about Mike that he dutifully refilled her glass and pointed out all of the potential single men at the party.
Her ex-boyfriend, Mike Newton, had not fully embraced the concept of "ex" and she knew when he did show up, his persistence would reemerge as though nothing had happened. She supposed if their breakup had been more spectacular, then Jasper wouldn't have been comfortable inviting Mike tonight. But rather than fireworks, they went out with a fizzle — well, actually the beginning and the middle were fizzle-like as well, but Bella knew her narrow focus on her studies and career allowed the tepid relationship to linger longer than it should have.
As Bella explained in lofty tones to Jessica and — Tyler? — the reasoning behind her selection of vintage matchbox cars in "Go, baby, go," Alice slid up behind her, grabbing her ass as she hissed, "Look alive. I think he's here."
Bella groaned quietly but offered a bright smile as she excused herself from Jess and her latest conquest. She was prepared to flee and hide in the bedroom until Mike gave up and left, instead, she whipped around and almost collided with her boss, E.A. Cullen.
"Uhf!" she uttered, gracelessly. He gripped her arm with one hand to steady her.
"Seems I almost knocked you on your butt again, Ms. Swan. Are you okay?" he asked, amusement coloring his voice.
"Um, yeah. Fine. Great, thanks." Bella knew she was babbling like an idiot but couldn't seem to care. Being almost a foot shorter than him, Bella let her eyes travel up slowly and appreciatively before meeting his eyes. He was in a suit. She'd never seen him in a suit, of course, because why would he wear a suit to the studio.
He really ought to wear a suit to the studio, she mused.
The charcoal gray fabric hung on him perfectly and she was sure it had been tailored, sparing no expense. His crisp white dress shirt was open at the collar, sans tie, giving him the right casual presence for an intimate party or art show. In one hand he held a dark bottle of wine.
When she finally met his eyes they still shone with humor, while surreptitiously appraising her appearance as well. As she watched, the stormy green irises roiled with some unnamed conflict. She took a step back before stating the obvious.
"You came!"
"I thought I was clear I planned to or I wouldn't have gone to so much trouble finagling an invite." He hesitated before asking, "It is okay that I came, isn't it?" The uncertainty in his voice surprised both of them.
Being in her own comfortable territory, Bella recovered quickly and took him by the arm. "Of course it is, let's get you a drink and I'll introduce you to my – uh – patrons, the Whitlocks." He allowed her to lead him to the kitchen — the most popular room in the house during a party, naturally. Squeezing through the middle of an animated conversation debating the superiority of Twitter over Facebook, she retrieved a glass from the counter and emptied the remains of a bottle of Pinot Noir.
The room was tighter than she realized as she turned to hand him the glass, only to find him pressed within a couple of inches of her. He didn't break eye contact as he smiled and took the glass, thanking her. Bella spied Alice across the room — watching them, of course — and she steered the famous artist in her direction. As they approached, Alice snagged Jasper and smiled warmly. Her eyes were wide and looked Cullen up and down. Bella realized that with all of her bitching about his vacuous choice of subject matter and temperamental mood swings, she might have failed to mention how attractive he was. She had sort of stopped noticing his looks after a week of working with the dubious master.
"Alice, Jasper. This is my employer, E.A. Cullen. Mr. Cullen, these two lovely people are hosting this party and are crazy enough to collect some of my work."
"Please, call me Edward," he said, shaking hands with them both. Bella gasped audibly and he gave her an amused, sidewise glance. She never even knew his first name and he obviously could tell. Fortunately, he didn't know any of the colorful names she did have for him.
Bella looked everywhere but at him as Alice and Jasper carried on, applauding her "unmatched talent" and "unique vision." Surely she had told them how much his work typically sold for, and how humorous this little show must seem to him. To his credit, he listened to them intently and didn't come across as patronizing, at all.
Seeing him in this environment, relaxed and engaged, it was easy to forget how miserable he had made her in the past month and a half. Making the unexpected effort to show up here tonight convinced her to confess her sins.
"You know, Edward," she said emphasizing his newly discovered name, "you've probably already surmised that this isn't exactly an art show, as it is a party adorned with some of my paintings. I was embarrassed that day, and may have embellished a little bit as a result. Sorry for the bait and switch." She hoped her face wasn't as red as it felt, but she maintained eye contact once her admission was out.
Instead of looking put out, his eyes were soft as he smiled at her. "I think your friends would beg to differ. They have exquisite taste from what I've seen of their home and their admiration for your work obviously goes beyond friendship." His brow furrowed with regret as he said, "I'm sorry I embarrassed you, by the way. I was being a shit and I backed you into a corner."
Bella gaped at him, completely unprepared for the apology or his genuine contrition. She recalled her comment in the first place.
"No, it was so above and beyond rude of me to question the value of your work. You probably should have just fired me on the spot."
She hadn't realized until that moment that they had migrated to a quiet corner and they were standing inches from one another. Even if they had been in the middle of the crowd, there seemed to be an invisible bubble surrounding Bella and Edward as their conversation grew more intense. His eyes suddenly burned with frustration and ire, but she could tell it wasn't directed at her.
"How could I fire you when you perfectly render that crap I get paid for — overpaid for — day in and day out," he seethed. The anger in his eyes morphed into pain and without planning to, Bella reached for his face, instinctively trying to soothe him.
"Bella, sweetheart! There you are," bellowed Mike Newton as he squeezed through the throng of art lovers and made his way to the corner Bella and Edward had bogarted.
She dropped her hand but their eyes held for a long moment in spite of the interruption. Hollering was bad enough, but Mike sidled up beside Bella and threw his arm around her shoulder while planting a kiss on her cheek. Edward grimaced and looked at her with regret, taking a step backward.
"Well, I've got some artwork to look at. Congratulations on the show, Ms. Swan — see you Monday?" he asked, but spun away before getting a reply. Or seeing her fling Mike's hand off her shoulder and glower up at him.
"That was incredibly rude, Mike. I was in the middle of a conversation. With my boss," she added for good measure.
"Sorry," he said, though clearly not, "I was just so excited to see you. It's been a while. How are you?"
"Fine. Still single, by choice," she said harshly and pushed him aside, her eyes scanning the room for the tall man in gray. His tousled coppery hair was easy to spot but he was always out of reach. Was he being purposefully elusive? She stopped to wonder what she would say to him when she caught up with him, and as the evening went on she began to doubt their "moment."
As the party thinned out in the next few hours, it was evident he had left and Bella felt inexplicably depressed when Alice flitted up to embrace her.
"That's it, I think. Did you have fun, sweetie? Ready to share a bottle and evaluate the evening?" Her friend's eyes danced with anticipation, but Bella couldn't bring herself to match it. She bowed out after thanking her friends profusely for hosting the fete, and headed home feeling dejected. And stupid.