Eight Ways to Ecstasy (22 page)

She was always shy about showing off her works in progress, and with how blocked she'd been since the semester had begun, her shyness had begun to approach a phobia. She hadn't presented anything at critique in weeks, and the disappointment on her teachers' faces had been growing and growing. But there was no more putting it off now.

Like a woman on her way to the gallows, Kate led her professor to the painting studio. As she stood in front of the cubby where she stowed her canvases, her skin flashed hot and cold, all the voices she spent so much of her time trying to ignore ganging up on her at once.
You don't belong here, you're no good at this, God why are you such a disaster…

She pulled out what little she had to show for herself, one terrible mess after another, and she lined them up against the wall. There were only a handful of people working in the studio, but she felt every single one of them, felt their gazes on her like searing brands, until she thought she'd burn up from the inside.

She was going to get laughed at. Her professor would take one look at this train wreck and…and…rescind her admission. Kick her out on the street, and Kate had worked so hard to be here. She'd
tried
.

But it wasn't enough.

“None of them are finished,” she hedged. Her hands were damp and clammy, her lungs tight.

Professor Robinson waved off her concerns, walking the row of paintings with her hand at her mouth, a serious set to her eyes. Swallowing past the crawling anxiety that had her about ready to go out of her skin, Kate waited. Bit at the inside of her cheek to keep quiet and let the woman think.

Finally, after what felt like hours, Professor Robinson tilted her head toward Kate, gaze still on the canvases laid out before her. “Walk me through what you're thinking here.”

“Well.” And Kate could do this. The whole point of going to school was to collaborate with people who knew what they were doing. To let them help her. “They're for the Sacred Spaces project.”

“Mm-hmm.”

Concern colored that hum, and Kate's stomach did another flip inside her abdomen. “And they're…” Her frustration was bleeding over. She said this so often to herself in her head, but admitting it out loud was another thing altogether. It was inviting criticism, it was opening herself up to the censure that made her feel flayed open and like this little girl who was never enough, who kept messing up. She wrung her hands. Then finally spat out, “I hate them.”

Professor Robinson's head jerked around at that. For this fraction of a second, the cool, detached calm she radiated shivered, the corner of her mouth twitching. “Oh.”

“I just.” And thank God she'd had the presence of mind to come at least a little bit prepared. She dug into her bag, fishing out her sketchbooks. “See.” The book on top was the one she'd finished in Montmartre, and she flipped it open to the final pages. “I took this trip to Paris this summer. A graduation present to myself.”

A last-ditch, floundering, desperate attempt to rediscover her muse and prove to herself that she had what it took.

She held out the drawing she'd done there, looking out over the city, the one she'd been so proud of at the time. “It's from the top of Sacred Heart, and I did these other ones of Notre Dame.”

“I see.” Professor Robinson reached out and took the book, freeing up Kate's hands to fumble with her other set of sketches.

“When you announced the theme for our portfolios, I immediately thought of these.” She'd thought of sitting on the steps of these grand old cathedrals and how her art had seemed to come to life.

“I understand why.”

“Yeah?” For the first time since that summer—since she'd placed these same images in Rylan's hands and waited with bated breath for him to render his opinion—she felt this spark of hope.

Professor Robinson swept her hand across the page. “There's a gorgeous
space
to this.”

“That's exactly what I was going for.”

“While with these…”

The hope Kate had harbored sputtered, going sour in her throat. Professor Robinson cast her gaze back at the canvases, and Kate's stomach sank.

“It's not there,” Kate said.

“Not yet.”

And that was something, wasn't it? Her professor thought there was potential at least. That she had a chance.

Then she turned to Kate. “I'll admit. I've been concerned.”

“Me, too.”

“I was one of the ones to review your application, you know.”

Actually, Kate hadn't. “Oh?”

“I saw a lot of possibilities. I was hoping that this program might help you develop your voice. Your vision.”

That was exactly what Kate had been hoping for, too. She nodded enthusiastically.

“But,” Professor Robinson said, gesturing at the paintings again, “these are just as scattered as your previous work. They're not up to the levels we were expecting.”

Of course they weren't. Kate was going to be sick.

“The studies from Paris, though. They're making me feel better about things.” She passed Kate's sketchbook back over to her. “So what do you think will get you on track again?”

“I don't know.” Kate chewed at the inside of her lip. “I've never been this blocked before.”

“There's a lot of pressure in a program like this. You're working outside of school, too?”

“Just a little waitressing job.”

“That's a lot.”

She wasn't wrong. What Kate would give to be back in Paris again, to have a whole week with no agenda, no obligations. That freedom had been part of what had empowered her, she was sure.

That and the beauty of the city. The chance to wander around museums, to surround herself with art and architecture.

Her breath caught. There had been one other factor, too.

Rylan. Taking her to all these amazing places and getting her to talk about what she did and who she was. Touching her so softly in the quiet of their rooms. Whispering in her ear that she was amazing.

Professor Robinson had kept talking as Kate retreated to the safety of that summer in her mind, and Kate heard herself replying back, agreeing that she needed to focus more, that maybe she should try working in different mediums.

“And it might be a matter of connection, too,” Professor Robinson said.

Kate's attention came flaring back. “Connection?”

“There's a sense of investment in the drawings from Paris that I'm not seeing in these. Think carefully about your subject matter. Why are you choosing these places? What about them speaks to you?”

It dawned on her, a sharp thud to the skull that left her reeling.

“Nothing,” she said.

Her paintings were hollow because she didn't care about them. They were
sacred
, sure, but not to her.

The ringing in her ears wasn't a concussion, but it might as well have been.

All the work she'd done for this portfolio…it was garbage. She'd known it was in bad shape, but she'd thought she'd be able to rework the canvases. Tweak them and bring them to life once they were dry.

But there wasn't anything to rework. Nothing to tweak.

She needed to go back to the drawing board completely.

“I know these are due soon,” Professor Robinson said, and Kate's gut twisted harder. “You've got your work cut out for you.”

Kate nodded dumbly and closed her sketchbooks.

Professor Robinson gave her a gentle smile. “I'm excited to see what you come up with.”

Excited
was one word for it.

Kate would've chosen
filled with crippling dread
.

Her professor excused herself back to her office not long after, leaving Kate to gather up her things with a numbness slowly spreading its way through her limbs. The smart move would be to double down and get straight to work. Pressure loomed over her head like a blade about to fall, and she could use that to help her kick her own ass into gear. This wasn't just about winning the fellowship anymore—it was about proving herself to everyone in the program. To her adviser. To herself.

She stowed the last of her paintings in her cubby again and worried the hem of her skirt. She looked up, across the studio, at the empty easel in her corner of the room.

She knew what would be the smart thing to do.

But more time painting more churches she couldn't care less about…

That wasn't what had fueled her art-soaked afternoons in Paris. Hell, even
art
hadn't been what had powered half of those.

She knew what had.

Turning her back on her easel, she stormed her way out of the studio. And pulled out her phone.

Rylan was this fucking close to just letting the call go to voicemail. He was hunched over another pile of McConnell's paperwork that Lexie and Dane had managed to get their hands on, and the penned-in, clawing feeling that had haunted him for the last decade had his lungs going tight, his legs jittery with the fight-or-flight reflex he'd been so good at ignoring at one point in his life. Right up until he'd finally let it win out and flown, all right.

Yet here he was again. Stuck, with no good options left. If he wanted to keep the company out of that asshole's hands, he had to step up and take over. He had to become exactly the man he'd been groomed from birth to be. He'd spent so damn long railing silently, fruitlessly against his fate. Fuck life and fuck him if he was going to walk right back into it and slam himself into that cage.

He'd thought he'd have more time.

From the breast pocket of his suit, his phone gave another buzz, and he hauled it out. If it was Lexie again, he was going to tell her to go to hell for real this time.

Except it wasn't.

Kate's beautiful, smiling eyes stared back at him from the screen. And he felt like he could breathe again.

He hit the button to answer the call and brought the speaker to his ear. “Hey, gorgeous.”

“Hey.”

He sat up straighter in his chair. It was just one word, but the tightness to her voice carried over the line. “What's wrong?”

And then she laughed. “Nothing. Everything.” He could almost hear her shaking her head. “I just…Listen, are you busy today?”

She had no idea. But he was already shuffling the papers in front of him and putting his computer to sleep. “I can be in Brooklyn in half an hour.”

“No, no, I'm actually just leaving campus.”

He paused with his hand on his mouse. Was it something with school, then? His brain had gone instantly to things going south with her mom, but apparently he was two steps behind. “Tell me where to be and when.”

“Are you at your house?”

“No, I'm out.” He stood up straight. “Kate, you're worrying me here.”

The quality of the sound around her changed, filling with distant echoes of traffic and wind. She must've stepped outside. “I'm fine. I'm…well, I don't know what I am, but I just— This is going to sound crazy.”

Compared to the other things he'd heard today? “Talk to me.”

“Can you meet me at the Met?”

Okay, that made him pause. “The Met?”

Emergency summons landed you at hospitals and police stations. But a museum?

Her voice pitched higher. “Can you?”

“I'm leaving right now.”

It was the work of a minute to finish closing up shop, sweeping the pile of paperwork into a drawer and turning off his monitor. He paused long enough to trade his suit jacket for a leather one, and then he was off, out of this glass box in the sky and down on the ground, feeling the earth beneath his feet.

He wasn't a completely irresponsible asshole, though. While he was in transit, he fired off messages to Lexie and to his admin, letting them know he'd be out of the office for the rest of the day for personal reasons. That earned him a barrage of replies from his sister, but he cut them off with a simple
Thanks, Dad
.

It was a dick move, but it was effective, making his phone go silent.

Christ, his father would've laid into him for pulling a stunt like this. But dear old Dad wasn't here right now.

That fact alone made the air a little sweeter, oxygen and space flooding his lungs. He laughed out loud, and who cared who heard? Half an hour ago he'd been facing a life sentence, one he himself had handed down, and the freedom of setting it all aside for an afternoon…It wasn't the angry flight of last year. He wasn't running away from the past and off into an abyss of a future. Off into free fall. He was running toward something.

Someone.

As quickly as he'd left, Kate still managed to beat him there. He spotted her at the top of the steps, and a whole new rush gave him wings. He took the stairs two at a time, darting around a couple of old ladies until he was within feet of her. Only then did he slow.

She looked terrible.

Scratch that, she looked amazing, in a short black skirt and tights and low-heeled boots that made her legs look even longer, but that wasn't the point. Her hair was in her face, the ends of it astray, and there was a brittleness to every line of her. Like you could shatter her with a teaspoon if you knew the right place to strike. Her eyes were red.

“What happened?”

She shook her head, and his heart clenched hard inside his chest, his throat going tight. A sheen gathered at the corner of her eyes.

He crossed the remaining steps to her in an instant. She melted into his arms, and he gathered her up close, burying his face in her hair.

“It's okay, baby, it's all right.” He held her tighter as a shiver racked through her. For a long moment they stood there, letting traffic go around them. With a stuttering breath, she made to pull away, but he caught her before she could go too far. “Tell me everything.”

But she shook her head, a fierceness setting into her gaze and the line of her mouth. “Can we just—can we not?”

His brow crinkled. “Kate—”

“I know.” A hot sort of a desperation crept into her tone. “I know, but I—I want to forget about it.”

Jesus, what the hell had happened to her? He clenched his jaw. “If someone did something—”

“No, that's not—everything's fine. It's just been a really”—her lip crumpled—“a really terrible day.”

Well, that much he could understand. It had been a hell of a morning for him, too, and it wasn't as if he wanted to talk about that. She'd called him, and he had come, and seeing her, being away from it all…It was a balm for his soul. It was relief and freedom and things he hadn't even known he could have.

He rubbed soothing circles into her skin. “Okay.”

“Things are just so messed up right now, and I want—I want to get away from it all.” Her eyes went suddenly, unbearably soft. “And the first thing I thought of was…” She trailed off, gesturing helplessly at the museum behind her.

A cleansing fire swept through his lungs.

She'd wanted to escape, just like he had. And the first idea to come to mind had been their time together in Paris.

The first person she'd thought of had been him.

“Please,” she said, and it shocked the breath from him, the fervency in that word. “Can we forget the rest of the world? Can we pretend?”

Can we pretend it's just the two of us again?

She'd scarcely suggested it, and he was drunk on the concept. No classes and no companies, no sisters and no art school friends. No phantom fathers breathing down their necks. The messy parts of their lives could just go away for an afternoon. Maybe forever.

All he needed was this.

“Yes.” His agreement spilled from his lips, and he was leaning in. She tasted like the freedom he'd been so desperate for, but which he'd been unable to name. She tasted like
escape
.

“Yes, yes.” He pulled away from the kiss to touch his brow to hers. “Of course we can.”

The smile that swept across her face floored him, so beautiful he had to meet it with his own. Grinning against her mouth, he curled his arms around her waist, lifting her up and spinning them.

And she felt so good against him, all those soft, lush curves. The euphoria of slipping out and meeting her like this was tempered, the air between them shifting. Static hummed between their bodies, and he swallowed past the tightness in his throat.

It had only been a couple of days, but it felt like forever since he'd touched her.

He could wait a little longer.

“Come on,” he said as he set her down, her body skimming his as he released her, making him only want to hold on tighter. But he held out his hand, and she slipped her soft, warm one into it. He pointed to the museum's front door. “Let's go get lost.”

In art. In their memories from that summer.

In each other.

It was like a montage out of a movie. Rylan took her hand and led her past the admission line, and she didn't even give him a hard time about whatever it was he did to get them in without waiting. Once they were in the museum proper, he led her straight to the European wing, and with every gallery they wandered through, a little more of the tension that had been dogging her slipped away.

This was what she'd needed. The rest of her life would come crashing back around her soon enough. She had a portfolio to completely rethink and a boyfriend she still wasn't on entirely certain ground with and a lonely, suspicious mother and a mountain of debt.

But here, with Rylan, surrounded by Postimpressionists, all of that was easy to forget.

It was like being in Paris all over again. At the Louvre or the Musée d'Orsay.

God, why didn't she do this more often? Connecting with your muse wasn't just about taking weeks off at a time to fly across the globe. It was little moments of inspiration, quiet afternoons away from the pressures of real life.

All those hours she'd spent painting churches because they were supposed to be sacred. Maybe she should've set up her easel right here. Painted these echoing rooms and brilliant canvases, sketched in the profiles of museumgoers filling their souls with images from decades and centuries and millennia ago.

Rylan rubbed his knuckles against her upper arm as they ambled past a grouping of Cézannes. He was so warm against her. So solid. And it still took her breath away, how he could make her body light up with these tiny touches. Another little coil of anxiety bled away from her spine, replaced by a heat humming right below her skin.

Forget churches and forget museums. Maybe she should've been painting
him
.

And then it struck her. Maybe she should have.

“Hold that thought.”

She slipped out from under his arm, shaking her head at the questioning look he shot her. She'd been carrying his camera around with her pretty much since the instant he'd given it to her. Half the rolls of film he'd bought were done, but she had a fresh one already loaded.

He caught her gaze as she fished the camera out. She shot the first image of him just like that, staring levelly at her through the lens. She moved the camera away from her eye and waved a hand at him. “Act normal?”

He gave her a questioning look, but in the end he did as she asked. Turned half away from her and made another circuit of the gallery, pausing in front of each painting. She burned a dozen frames like that. Rylan and art, and art and Rylan, and they were both so beautiful. The two of them together…

No wonder she'd fallen into his bed. This had been his first move on her, after all. He'd taken her to a museum and guided her through room after room full of masterpieces.

And then he'd taken her back to
his
room. He'd shown her the masterpiece that was his body, and he'd taught her what it could do. How hers could feel when it was pressed to his.

Another blooming tingle of awareness flooded her skin, making her breasts go heavy. They'd had sex a handful of times since he'd been back. Two days ago, he'd laid her out and they'd passed this very camera between them, taking their time and snapping images of passion and flesh, and it had been fun. Revelatory, even.

But when was the last time he'd really taken her out of her own head with it? Since he'd shown her something new?