Page 34 of Suddenly Beck

‘I’m an artist... a sculptor,’ he replies unselfconsciously with a wink. ‘I’m good with my hands.’

‘Huh, you don’t say…’ I mutter absently as my gaze slowly slides down to his long fingers, which are still wrapped around his ice cream cone. My brain immediately decides it would be a good idea to fill in the blanks and present me with an award-winning image of those long, smooth dexterous fingers wrapped around my cock.

‘I bet I know where your mind just went.’ Beck gives a delightfully wicked chuckle.

‘Then you don’t need to say it do you.’ I flush, feeling the sweat pinning my t-shirt to my clammy back. ‘Not unless you want me to end up with an inappropriate boner in front of all these children.’

‘Come on.’ He smiles as he glances down at his watch. ‘We should be getting back.’

‘Great,’ I think to myself as we climb down from the railing. Trapped in the car with Beck for the next fifteen minutes inhaling the mouth-watering scent of coconut and a hint of light sweat. I may just drown in a pool of my own lust. ‘Tell me more about your sculptures,’ I ask to distract myself as we start to walk companionably back toward the car. ‘What sort of sculptures do you do?’

‘I cast in bronze mostly,’ Beck replies. ‘My subjects can be anything really, just whatever inspires me.’ He casts me a long speculative look, and I’m not sure what he’s thinking.

‘How do you even make a bronze?’ I frown. ‘I mean you don’t carve it like wood, do you? And I imagine you don’t chip away at it like stone. Do you heat it and bend the metal?’

‘Yes and no.’ He shakes his head. ‘Yes, I heat it, but down to molten metal. I create an original of the piece I’m working on in clay first, and once I’m satisfied with it, I use the lost wax casting method. It’s quite involved and time consuming, but to cut a long story short, I make the clay original, then I use that to make a mould. There’s several steps to this, but by the time I get to the final plaster mould, I pour the bronze into that and let it cool. Then it’s just a case of breaking it out of its ceramic shell and sandblasting, welding parts together if I’ve cast it in pieces rather than a whole. Then I grind the top surface until it resembles the original piece. It can take months to complete just one piece depending on how detailed it is.’

‘Wow, where did you learn to do that?’ I ask.

‘Florence,’ he murmurs.

‘Florence?’ I blink in surprise. ‘You lived in Italy?’

‘For a while I did.’ He sighs. ‘I loved it there.’

‘Why did you come back?’ I ask, unable to help myself. ‘Sorry, that was a bit rude.’ I shake my head.

‘No, it’s okay.’ He sighs, and we walk in silence for a while. ‘I came back just before my dad got sick, and I’m glad I did. It took him so fast, so every moment we had with him was precious.’

‘I can imagine.’ I nod in sympathy, but there’s a tension bracketing his mouth that wasn’t there before and his eyes are a little guarded, and I know there’s more to his time in Florence that he’s letting on, but it’s not my place to ask. ‘Have you sold any of your work yet?

‘Some.’ He shrugs modestly. ‘I made enough to buy my place on the bluffs and add an extension. It still needs a lot of renovation but it’s mine.’

’Wait a minute.’ My gaze narrows thoughtfully as we reach the car. ‘It isn’t the little silver blue sea cottage with the wonky chimney, is it?’

‘Yep.’ He leans his back against the car door as he looks at me curiously. ‘That’s my place.’

‘It’s gorgeous,’ I say a little enviously. ‘That view is to die for.’ I’m seriously impressed. He’s only sold a couple of pieces, and yet, he’s made enough money to buy a beautiful, old coastal property in Cornwall. His work must be extremely good, especially considering he learned his craft in Florence. I’d love to see some of his work.

‘Can’t argue with you there.’ His mouth curves. ‘I was lucky I made enough money to buy when I did. The previous owner’s husband had passed away, and she was going into a retirement home. She wanted the cottage to go to a local who’d love it and cherish it. Not someone who wanted the land overlooking the bluff and would bulldoze it to the ground to make way for some expensive holiday rental.’

‘I’m glad.’ I lean against the car next to him.

He stares at me for a moment. ‘Can I tell you something?’ he finally says quietly.

‘Sure.’

He blows out a deep breath. ‘I’ve been approached by a gallery, and they want to host my first showing.’

‘Beck.’ I smile widely. ‘That’s amazing! You must be so excited!’ I study his expression, and I can tell immediately by the slight furrow between his brows that excited is not the right word. ‘What is it?’ I ask softly. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘I don’t know.’ He shakes his head. ‘I know I should be ecstatic but…’

‘But what?’ I coax gently.

‘It’s one thing selling some of my pieces,’ he admits. ‘They’re listed, they’re paid for, they’re shipped and out the door, but to pick pieces to put on display. To have dozens of people dissecting them and critiquing them, it makes me feel…’

‘Vulnerable? Exposed?’ I guess.