FUSE (4 page)

A hint of a grin flashes over his full lips. "I used to dream about playing for the Yankees. No one has ever mistaken me for a player before. I like that."

"You looked like a baseball player to me." I shrug as I blow on the warm, deep chocolate liquid in the mug. I love cocoa. It reminds me of when I was back in Philadelphia and I'd have a mug every Friday night to celebrate getting through another week of classes. It was my treat to myself for working so hard. When all my friends would be out at the bar celebrating with shot glasses filled with drinks with comical names, I'd be in my dorm room, studying to ready myself for the onslaught of school work that awaited me in the week ahead. That was my life for more than four years. It feels foreign to me now.

"Do you know who I am now?" he asks with a cock of a dark brow.

I study his handsome face as I take in the tone of the question. He didn't sound arrogant or expectant when he asked. He's curious about whether I've pieced together who he is and what his art means to those who appreciate it.

"You're Brighton Beck." I lick the edge of my lip to catch a drop of cocoa after I take a heavy sip. "You paint watercolors."

"Do you like art, Zoe?" He brings the mug to his lips and takes a swallow. "This is actually good."

I nod.  "It is good and I don't think I know enough about art to like it."

"Tell me what you do know about it."

I like the challenge. I especially like that he's comfortable challenging me. It's unfamiliar and welcome to me. He doesn’t know my past so he doesn't tread on thin water when he's around me. He has no reason to coddle my heart or me. It's refreshing. I need it. Maybe I need it more than I even realize I do.

I scratch the edge of my nose. "I know nothing about it."

"You've never taken an art class?" He drums his long fingers against the table. "Has it never interested you?"

The quick retort would be that art never fit into my life's plan so there's never been room for it. I've been working towards an undergraduate degree in economics with the goal of getting into law school. I've accomplished step one of that plan and absolutely nowhere on that path was there a place for an art class. "I had a heavy class load in school. I didn't have any time for art."

He chuckles softly. "Everyone should make time for art."

"Spoken like a true artist." I raise my mug in his direction before I take another sip.

"We all have a creative side to us." He leans forward on the table. "I'd like to know about your creative side."

I scan his face looking for any trace of amusement in his expression. He's being genuine. He's seriously asking me about the creative part of myself. "I don't think I have one."

"You do." He places both his hands around the mug in front of him. "Maybe you haven't discovered it yet?"

"Maybe I haven't." I tip my chin towards him. "Maybe I never will."

He tilts his head slightly to the left as his eyes travel slowly over my face. "You will, Zoe. Give yourself some time and some space to find it, and you will."

***

"Y
ou want me to come to this address tomorrow?" I hold the torn corner of the paper napkin in my hand as I read the numbers he wrote down before we left the diner. "I don't know about that."

He glances to the left to where I'm standing safely on the sidewalk. He, on the other hand, has taken at least three heavy steps into the street to hail a cab. I watch as cars race past him. "It's my studio. I'd like to show it to you."

This is insane. I don't know him, yet he's one of the most recognizable faces in the art world. It's not as though he's going to accost me right there in his studio, is he? "I don't know you. I don't think I should come."

He covers his mouth with his hand and I intuitively know that he's doing that to hide a smile. "Zoe, I won't be there alone. I have an assistant who will be there and my manager will likely be hanging out most of the day."

I have no reason to go there. He may think that some cosmic force pulled us together so we could be friends, but I'm not convinced of that. He lives in a completely different world than I do. We have nothing in common. 

"You can drop by if you want." He waves towards a taxi that's approaching. "No pressure. It's completely up to you."

I watch in silence as he takes a step back as the taxi stops hard. He leans in to the passenger door window before he pulls a few bills from his wallet and hands them to the driver.

"I'm just not sure," I call towards him. I don't want him to get into that taxi thinking that I'm going to show up. I'm not a groupie. He has to realize that by now. I haven't been shy about my ignorance regarding his work.

"Zoe." He holds out his hand. "Please."

My feet march forward towards him without a second thought. "It's been nice meeting you, Beck. Thank you again for the tip and the cocoa."

"The driver will take you home." He opens the rear passenger door and nods towards the empty back seat. "You can give him your address when you're on your way."

I look up into his face. The soft smile that greets me offers a reassurance that I didn't think I needed until right now. "I thought the taxi was for you."

"Me?" He leans closer and I wonder for a brief moment whether he wants to kiss me. "I'm going to walk home from here. The fare is covered unless you live in Connecticut."

I giggle at the notion. "Thank you for this."

"I really hope I'll see you tomorrow, Zoe." He cocks a brow even though there's no question within the words. "I had a lot of fun tonight."

"Me too," I admit as I slide in to the taxi before he shuts the door behind me. "Me too, Beck."

B
eck

There was a second, right when she was ready to get into the taxi, when I wanted to kiss her. Her hair was blowing in the wind, her lips were parted just a touch and she was looking up into my face. I can't count how many beautiful women I've met in my life. I don't know how many of them I've taken to bed but I do know that I've never wanted to kiss any of them as much as I wanted to kiss Zoe. Fucking her wasn't even on my radar last night. I just wanted to taste those gorgeous full lips. I wanted to weave my hand through her thick brown hair, tilt her head to the right and slide my lips over hers.

I hadn't done it. I stopped myself because I want to know her. I want to understand that pain that flashed over her face the first night I spoke to her at the pub. She's carrying a deep loss inside of her. She's guarded and wary because of it. Pain that intense shouldn't touch someone that beautiful. She's too young to know that or to shoulder it the way she is.

"We need to sit down and talk about setting up a gallery show," Jerry, my manager, says as he walks back into my studio. "You didn't give me a firm answer when I asked you about it on the phone last week."

I didn't give him a firm answer because I don't have enough new work to justify a gallery show. He's not aware of that. Jerry lives in Los Angeles and for the past few years, while I've been pursuing women in an attempt to chase away the heartache I've felt over losing Liz and Alexa, Jerry has been under the assumption that I've been holed up in this space in Chelsea, creating masterpieces. The sad truth is that I haven't picked up a brush in over a year.

"A year from now would be good for me," I suggest. I know how it works. I know that booking a space is something we need to do at least a year, if not more, in advance. That gives me the time I need to get my head back into the game.

"A year?" Jerry spits the question out with obvious disdain. "That's bullshit. We need to get something together within the next three months."

I shake my head as I turn back towards the wall of paintings I have completed that I haven't put up for sale yet. If I'm going to show some at the museum that is opening in London, I won't have anything left to place in a gallery. "I can't do three months. I need a year."

"Why?" He brushes past me to stand directly in front of the paintings I'm staring at. "We can show these and you must have some at your place in Paris."

I should have some at my place in Paris. I told Jerry that I was painting when I was there because that was my intention. I'd gathered together everything I needed to work. The one thing missing was the internal drive. I'd sat in front of the blank canvas I set up in my studio there but nothing had come to me. Every canvas littering the apartment I keep there is blank.

"I'm still thinking about showing some of my work at the new museum opening in London later this year." I turn away from him because I already know what his reaction will be. Jerry, who gets a percentage from every piece I sell, doesn't see the value in showcasing my work in a museum. To him it's a waste and a loss to his wallet. As much as the man has helped propel my career forward the past decade, he can't wrap his mind around the idea of my work being enjoyed by patrons of any museum.

"You're not doing that." His tone is dismissive and terse. "Your father wouldn't approve of it either."

Pulling out the dad card means Jerry's already in full defensive mode. Jerry and my father met before I was even born. They're college pals and Jerry uses every opportunity he can to remind me of that.

"You know he wouldn't want you wasting your time on that," he presses on. "I'm going to start making some calls to find a curator for a gallery show and you're going to get your ass in gear and finish some new pieces so we can get your work back out there."

I'm tempted to bring up the fact that I spoke to my father two days ago and he encouraged me to do the museum showing. Butting heads with Jerry over that seems trivial and unimportant right now. Everything seems unimportant right now.

That's because Zoe, the beautiful server from the pub, the woman who I can't get out of my mind, is standing in the doorway to my studio looking right at me.

***

"Y
ou're not doing that mentorship program again so you can get laid, are you?" Jerry doesn't see any reason to be polite in the presence of a woman. He never has. He just says it like he sees it and right now he sees a gorgeous, young, brunette taking off her coat to reveal a simple grey wool dress and knee high black boots.

"Shut the fuck up." I turn to look directly at him. "She's a friend."

"She's a friend you want to fuck." He nudges me in the side with his elbow. "If I was thirty years younger, I'd be all over that too."

I clench my hands into fists at my sides. "You're disgusting, Jerry. Keep it together. I'm trying to make a good impression here."

I turn my head to the right again to where Zoe is standing next to my assistant, Albert. He's motioning back towards a small reception area. She nods and shifts on her heel.

"I'm going to get her." I wave my finger at Jerry. "Behave yourself when I bring her back here."

"I'm coming with you." He reaches past me to grab his overcoat. He'd thrown it onto a wooden chair when he first arrived an hour ago. "I'm coming back this afternoon, Brighton. We need to make some firms plans."

I nod absentmindedly. I know I need to plan for my future, but right now, all I can think about is Zoe and the fact that she's actually standing in my studio.

Z
oe

His manager looks like a combination of Santa Claus and my grandfather. He's not much taller than I am. The small amount of hair left on his head is graying and thin. His glasses are slightly bent and I can't be certain if that's because it helps his vision or if he's just too lazy to adjust them properly.

I feel compelled to tell him that one of the buttons on his striped dress shirt has popped open over his rotund stomach but it's actually only adding to his odd charm.

"It's nice to meet you, Jerry." I extend my hand towards him. "I'm Zoe Cameron."

He pulls it softly into his. "Brighton tells me you two are friends. What do you do?"

He said we are friends?  I like that.

"I'm going to be a lawyer," I say with every certainty that it will be my reality one day. I feel the need to qualify it though. I should. I mean Beck met me in a pub. "I work as a server right now, but that's temporary. I'm just waiting to get accepted into law school."

"A lawyer?" Jerry bends his head back to look up at Beck. "That's different for you."

The grimace on Beck's face brings a small grin to mine. Jerry is a character. I can tell already.

"Albert," Beck turns toward his assistant who I met when I rang the buzzer a few minutes earlier. "Take Jerry downstairs to the coffee shop. Buy him one before you put him in a taxi and send him back to his hotel."

My eyes dart up to Albert's kind face. He's a few years older than me but much more refined. His short black hair is slicked back and the blue dress shirt and sweater he's wearing give him a cultured look that instantly suggests he understands the intricacies of art.

"Yes, sir." He nods as he reaches to place a hand on Jerry's shoulder. "Can I bring either of you back anything?"

"Cocoa." Beck taps Jerry on the back as he motions towards the door I just came through with his other hand. "Bring Zoe and I each a hot cocoa."

***

"I
'm not surprised that you're going to be a lawyer." They're the first words out of his mouth once Albert and Jerry walk out the door. "I can tell that you're going to do important things in your life."

If it's a compliment meant solely to impress me, it does. I don't know how to absorb anything he says to me. I'm standing in the private studio space of Brighton Beck staring at him dressed in jeans and a blue dress shirt that's rolled up to his elbows. He's more gorgeous than any man I've ever met before and he's under the belief that the two of us are meant to be best friends. It's surreal and in some small way, it's what I need right now. After he put me in the taxi last night, I imagined that he stopped at another bar on his way home to pick up a woman to spend the night with. The image of that created a spark of jealousy within me but judging by the way he looks at me and the mere fact that he thinks we're friends, I know he doesn't see me in any other light.