Page 58 of Love… It's Wild
Where Rob’s imagination can exist.
I walk over to a painting leaning up against the wall and look down at it. It’s a landscape photo. A gorgeous sun sets over the field as a child runs through the grass. She has messy, dark hair and wears overalls with a daisy in her hand.
“That’s Molly,” I state. “She looks so young.”
Rob stands beside me and looks down at her gorgeous smile in the photo as she laughs in the field. “She was six when I painted that one. We’d just bought the property, and I had this image from the first weekend we were here. This was how she looked when she first played outside. When she knew this land was her home.”
It’s a gorgeous portrait with precise brushstrokes, making her look almost lifelike. It reminds me of the one in my room.
“You made all of these?” I ask, walking to where a painting of the house is hanging on the wall.
He nods. “This is my studio. Are you upset it’s not a torture chamber?”
“I’m impressed. But I don’t understand. Why keep it under lock and key?”
“It’s my private space. I don’t like people in here. My hobby hasn’t always been well received. It’s not a cool thing to do when you’re a young man. As a husband, it ate up my personal time, and it took up too much space in our home. I have way too many half-finished pieces. Not everyone appreciates what I do down here.”
“The kids should see this. They’d be so proud.”
“They’ve seen my art.”
“Like the one hanging in my room?” I add. “It’s stunning. I noticed it when I moved in. You have talent, Rob. True talent. Don’t hide it behind a closed door.”
“It’s just landscapes and some people. The human form is mesmerizing. The way people move. The whisk of wind moving through hair or the pain that can be seen through a line on your forehead.”
I temporarily forget where I am as I become enraptured in him. For a man who seems very closed off, he sees a lot more than he lets on.
“Have you done any nudes?”
“Why is that where your mind goes?”
“Because all artists work on nudes.” I traipse around the room, letting my finger linger on the wood of an easel. “Where did you train?”
“I took some classes as a kid, but I’m mostly self-taught.”
“Even more impressive.”
In the corner, there’s a seating area. A small sofa with large cushions.
I drape my body across it, resting the back of my hand against my forehead. “Paint me.”
He slides his hands in his pockets. “I’m not the royal portrait painter. You can’t commission me.”
My hands find the hem of my sweatshirt. I lift it over my head and discard it onto the floor.
“What are you doing?” he asks, a picture of confusion.
His eyes widen as I reach around my back and unhook my bra. I take that off, too, and fling it toward an easel, where it lands on the edge of it. It makes me giggle.
“Don’t be shy. You already saw these beauties in the selfie I sent you.”
My hair is up in a bun, so I pull the hair tie out and let my curls spill down my shoulders and stop at the top of my exposed breasts. My nipples harden in the cool air of the room.
“Paint me like one of your French girls,” I say in a breathy voice.
“This is notTitanic, and I’m not Jack.”
“I love how you understand all of my pop culture references. Come on. Paint me. Please.”