Page 18 of Muse (The Forbidden Hearts #1)

SOPHIE

T he gallery sure is “swanky”, as Sal called it.

A storefront property, with huge floor to ceiling windows, dramatic lighting, and a weathered brick facade.

The door is framed with antique wood, giving it a rustic feel, though somehow still upscale.

I’m going to stand out like a sore thumb.

Finding a parking spot is a struggle, and I end up three blocks away. Wonderful.

Grabbing the small clutch Sal loaned me, I climb out of the car and double-check that the doors are locked.

The streets are alive tonight, beautiful people milling about and spilling out of the bars and clubs lining the streets.

I keep my eyes open, laser focused on my surroundings.

I’m not used to the city, especially being here alone and at night.

It’s a nice area, but as a young woman, you can never be too careful.

When I enter the expansive gallery, my breath catches in my throat. Gray concrete floors contrast the stark white walls. The high ceiling is crossed by wooden planks, interspersed by soft dome lights. The walls are lined with huge canvases and colors galore. It nearly takes my breath away.

Small cocktail tables line the middle of the room, people as beautiful as the art clustered around them are making their way along the walls, admiring the paintings.

Large cutouts to either side show glimpses of additional rooms beyond.

I’m awe-struck, standing still in the entryway, taking it all in. Digesting all there is to see.

I finally swallow back my amazement and begin searching faces, looking for him.

I can’t find him in the crowd, though. So instead, I make my way to the bar to the right of the door, and order a strawberry mocktail.

I need something in my hands… something to do to help me feel a bit less out of place.

I begin rounding the room, stopping at each painting.

Grateful for a place to direct my attention, as I don’t know a soul in the place.

I wish I’d brought Sal along, after all.

People nod politely at me as they pass. Women are dressed to the nines in gorgeous gowns, men in suits tailored to perfection.

The scent of lavender fills the air and it’s heavenly.

I feel a presence at my back, the hairs on the back of my neck prickling. I resist the urge to turn, keeping my gaze focused on the splashes of red and purple that evoke feelings of rage from me. But then he speaks.

“Sophie.”

It’s him.

I don’t turn, afraid to show him my flushed face.

“Hello, Mr. Hayes.”

He clears his throat, and the scent of him finally reaches me. It’s masculine and woodsy. It makes my knees weak.

“What do you see?” He says, his voice barely above a whisper.

I contemplate my answer, wanting to impress him. Trying to find the words that accurately represent my feelings.

“I see anger and passion. I see beauty hidden underneath pain.”

“Hmm.” Is all he gives me, but the appreciation and understanding in his tone rings clear. He moves to stand next to me, and finally, I turn.

Looking up into his eyes, I see them widen just a fraction. His gaze is intense, penetrating to my very bones. And then his eyes slip, taking me in from head to toe. It’s quick, and if I’d looked away for even a moment, I would’ve missed it. But it happened. He checked me out.

“You look… nice.” He says, the last word catching in his throat, like he’d wanted to say something else.

And I have to admit, he does too. “You as well.”

I smile, letting him know I mean it. Genuinely.

His suit is cut just right, hugging his frame.

He wears a dress shirt, but no tie. The top few buttons are left open, baring his chest to me, sprinkled with just a bit of dark hair.

He’s dressed in all black, head to toe. Drenched in it.

It gives him an air of mystery, and it’s so attractive that I almost can’t stand it.

I want to touch him. I want to drink him in. And by the look in his eye, he appreciates how I look tonight too.

He turns, opening his mouth to speak when he’s cut off by a high-pitched squeal.

“THEO!”

A stunning blonde bombshell rushes us. I take an instinctive step back to protect myself from being plowed over.

She throws herself into Theo’s arms, and he catches her, his arms circling her waist to keep them both from falling.

I don’t miss the look on his face though. For just a moment he looked… pained .

He disentangles himself from her grasp quickly, stepping back and putting some space between them.

“Evelyn,” he says in greeting. Clipped and monotone, his voice betraying nothing.

So this is her.

“I’ve missed you!” Her voice turns sultry, and I don’t miss the way she leans into him again. She seems like more than just a friend.

Her short hair is cut straight at her chin, giving her an air of sophistication.

She’s breathtaking. A model. Legs a mile long, a waist so small I could fit my hands around it, a bright white smile that’s so blinding I know it must have cost her a fortune.

Her breasts press against the fitted red fabric of her dress, which looks like it was custom made for her.

Fuck, she’s perfect.

Suddenly, I feel like a child playing dress up. Completely out of place here amongst these artists and elegant strangers.

“This is Sophie, the student who’s drawing I sent to you.” He gestures towards me, and her attention turns on me. I note, gleefully, that he did not say he missed her too.

“Hi! How sweet! You must be so grateful to have him as your teacher.” The stars in her eyes and her sickly sweet voice are so over-the-top, I almost can’t take it. And I don’t miss the way she emphasizes the word teacher either.

“Yeah, he’s great.” I say, smirking at him. “It’s nice to meet you. Thank you for the invitation to come tonight.”

“So,” she says, almost conspiratorially. “Your art was really great for someone your age. Do you plan to go to art school?”

Your age. Ouch.

“That’s the dream!” I try to keep my voice strong and cheerful. I hope it’s working, my feigned confidence.

“You know, it’s a difficult path to take. I’ve been successful, but so many aren’t.” She gives me puppy dog eyes, like I’m just a young, dumb kid who is bound to fail. I’m feeling smaller by the second.

I don’t say anything in response, just nod my head with a tight smile on my lips. I’m not sure what to say to that.

Mr. Hayes jumps in to rescue me, and I could kiss him for it. “You could say that about any career, Eve. Sophie is incredibly talented and should be encouraged to pursue her passion. ”

He steps closer to me and her eyes narrow in response.

“Yes! Yes, of course. I don’t mean to be a Debbie Downer!” She huffs out a breathy laugh, placing a hand on his bicep. “Well, feel free to take a look around and shmooze! Lots of people here tonight—make some connections.” She says pointedly in my direction, and it feels dismissive.

Then she turns to Mr. Hayes. “Join me for a drink?”

This is not turning out how I’d expected, but truthfully, I don’t know what I’d really thought tonight would amount to anyway.

But then he wrenches his arm from her grasp, his tone tight as he says “No, thank you. You enjoy. I won’t be abandoning Sophie tonight.”

He places a hand on the small of my back and steers me away. The warmth of his touch is intoxicating, sending jolts of electricity through my veins and making my heart jitter in my chest. And he keeps it there as we walk, heading towards an adjacent gallery showroom.

Every bit of my attention is there, at the point at which our bodies meet. Such a small touch, but my body is on fire. And the way he just saved me from that awful interaction… the way he turned her down to spend time with me… well, fuck, that was amazing.

My modern knight in shining armor.

When we are finally out of her sight, he stops us in front of a large grayscale painting of what looks to be rain on a pane of glass. It’s beautifully done. I want to reach out and touch it. The picture is so realistic I just know my fingertips would come away wet.

“All of this art… it’s so beautiful.” I’m in awe. So much talent at every turn. I want to bundle myself up in it, breathe it in.

“Not the only beautiful thing I see here tonight.” He says, and then drags a hand down his face. “Sorry, that just slipped out. ”

I turn and look at him, seeing something there in the depths of his eyes. An appreciation… for me. Inside, I come apart. I want him to say it again, and again. Instead, I give him a shy smile.

“Thank you for saving me back there…”

“No problem. She can be a lot sometimes, especially after a few cocktails.” He cringes, regret playing on his features. “Don’t let her get you down.”

“I’ll try my best.” I shrug, sheepishly. Not wanting to admit how much her words hurt my ego.

We walk to the next piece, an abstract painting. Swirls of every shade of blue and grey, splatters of black and white. A raised texture as if the paint was thrown upon it, not laid down with a brush. It’s chaotic, yet it still seems purposefully done.

He focuses on the canvas, lips pursed in thought, studying the lines and shapes before him.

“I didn’t take you for an abstract art kind of guy…”

He turns to look at me, a slow smile tugging at his lips. “And what kind of guy do you take me for?”

His gaze moves over me, and I shift under the weight of it. Suddenly feeling self-conscious and wanting to run my hands down my sides, checking for wrinkles in my dress, for flaws of any kind.

“I don’t know… like you would prefer something more structured? Realism, maybe. Something that follows the rules.” I smirk.

He chuckles, shaking his head as he looks back towards the painting. “You think I like rules that much?”

“You sure act like it.”

He tilts his head, amusement flickering in his dark eyes. “Maybe I just like feeling in control.”

I fold my arms across my chest, looking at the painting. Trying to see what he sees. The more I stare, the more I can see it. The layered emotions buried underneath the texture, the colors clashing and blending. Something beautiful being born out of the chaos.

“I used to think abstract art was meaningless. Like the artist just threw random things on a canvas and slapped a price tag on it, calling it deep.”

“And now?” He asks.

I exhale, something tightening in my chest. “Now, I think… maybe it’s the most honest kind of art. Nothing is hidden. A real representation of how the artist feels. Really feels, deep inside.”

He studies me, quiet and contemplating. “That’s how it should be. But people still hide things in plain sight.”

My throat goes dry. The air between us shifts, charged with unspoken thoughts and feelings. “What do you like about this one?”

His voice dips, low and quiet. A shiver runs down my spine. “I like that it makes me feel .”

“And what does it make you feel?” I ask, my voice lowering to match his. The conversation suddenly feels intimate and forbidden. I shouldn’t have asked him that. The way he is looking at me now… carefully, like he’s on the edge of a cliff, about to topple over… makes me think I’ve crossed a line.

He exhales, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Like I shouldn’t be here, talking to you like this.”

His words feel like a warning. But the way he says them, well… it doesn’t feel like he’s pushing me away. It feels like he’s just as caught up in whatever this is as I am. My heart hammers in my chest, and I swallow, dropping my gaze.

“Maybe we should keep moving then.”

He nods once, stepping back and giving me space. I wish he wouldn’t.

And yet, as we continue walking through the gallery, I feel it there, between us. The pull, undeniable and electric. Like a brushstroke on canvas, messy and unplanned. But maybe, just maybe… becoming something beautiful.