disorganized jumble. She had props of all kinds for inspiration—stacks of magazines, silk flowers and vines, funky furniture and fabrics, boas and beads. This was a mess, the perfect home for Sage Anderson, the artist.
She especially loved the lighting. She’d added two new skylights in the remodel. Along with the two front windows and the single one on the side, the new skylights created the perfect light, and when she walked into the room, the real world went soft and mellow and fantastical. As usual, she switched on her stereo and the sound of classic rock helped transport her into her creative world.
Here in her world of fairies and fantasy, Sage wasn’t herself, but somebody new and unique and … clean. Here, she liked who she was, and each time she visited, she took some of that world away from her when she left. She felt a little bit cleaner each time she returned to the real world.
She hoped that eventually, she’d bring along enough of the clean back with her that she’d be the new Sage in both places.
Fleetwood Mac played in the background as she created. Using mostly blues and greens and yellows, she brought a world to life that made her smile as she stood at the easel, confident that the finished work would please her patrons. When the cuckoo clock on the wall that served as her alarm sounded ten o’clock, even though it was only nine thirty-five, she stepped away from the easel, turned to wash out her brush, and stopped abruptly.
Colt Rafferty sat on the sill of the open window of the building next door, directly across from her open window. “Hello, beautiful.”
“What are you doing?”
“Not working, unfortunately. Too distracted by the scenery. It’s obvious I’m going to have to move my desk. Say, do you want to go to lunch later?”
“Hold it. Stop. That’s Gabe’s building. What are you doing in Gabe’s building?”
“This is my new office. I talked to Gabe last week. Got a great deal on the rent—he thinks the other office has a better view. He’s a better architect than he is a businessman, I think.”
While she gaped, he stepped across the narrow divide between the two buildings and into her studio. “You can’t do that.”
“It’s barely four feet across. It’s an easy step.”
“I didn’t mean that you can’t do that. I meant that you can’t do it.”
He ignored her, looking around the room. “Wow. Your home studio wasn’t like this. This place is a mess. What’s up with that?”
But even as she drew a breath to defend herself, he approached her easel and said, “Sage, this is really interesting. Your work shows more depth all the time. You’ve grown.”
“Good heavens, you are such a jerk.”
“So, you gonna go to lunch with me?”
If she looked into the mirror on her right, she thought, she just might see steam coming out her ears. Instead she looked left at the cuckoo clock. “I have to open the gallery. See yourself out, Rafferty.”
She left the room and headed downstairs, grimacing at the knowledge that she’d left her brushes filled with paint. She never neglected her brushes. Never!
Don’t run away from him. Don’t let him do that to you. Don’t let him take your power.
“What power?” she muttered even as she hesitated. Turning around, she retraced her steps and was relieved—at least that’s what she told herself—to find her studio empty once more.
She glanced through the window as she stood at the sink. He sat at a desk, talking on the telephone, flipping pages of a document in front of him. Why, Gabe? Why did you have to go and rent that office to that man?
She’d never get any work done now. She’d feel like she had someone looking over her shoulder all the time. She could move her easel, but she didn’t want to do that. The entire remodel had been designed around her easel standing in that one spot. She’d have to get window blinds. No, that would ruin the light.
She’d get him window blinds. And curtains.
I think I might be falling in love with you.
“Oh, Colt.” This was hard. If only … She closed her eyes. “No, don’t go there. Go downstairs and open the gallery and make those phone calls you need to make.”
She wanted to call Connor Keene’s agent. Vistas was going to hang his work in June and they still had a few details to negotiate. Besides, the woman had promised her a cookie recipe Sage wanted to