Strangely Normal - By Tess Oliver Page 0,40

I just needed it to work on me.

CHAPTER 12

I walked between the two dogs who sat like stone lions outside the pool house. The interior had been decorated as nicely as the main house. Music rolled quietly through the room. One side of the room had a sitting area, large screen television, and wet bar. The other side had been transformed into an artist’s studio, complete with canvas drop cloths, racks of painter’s supplies, and a collection of finished and unfinished paintings. The muddy, oily smell of paints filled the air.

Jude balanced on a stool and looked around his easel. “I’m just sharpening my pencils.”

I walked over to a collection of canvasses. There were several landscapes but most were paintings of people, both men and women. There was emotion in the faces that only a true artist could capture. They were nothing short of amazing. “You are really talented.”

“You think? Sometimes I question it. A lot of people can draw and paint.”

“True, but not many can capture the rawness of someone’s inner soul like you’ve done in these paintings.” I pulled out a canvas of a particularly pretty girl who was wearing a sheer as gossamer dress and staring out a window. “Like this girl, you can tell she’s had some crap happen in her life that has scarred her forever. You can see it in her eyes. Either that or she’s an exceptionally good model.”

He walked over and looked at the painting I held. “That’s Ginger. And you’re right. She’s had a shitty life.”

Jude looked up at my face. “Some people are easy to read. I can see every facet of their emotion in their expression, but you’re not like that.”

I smiled and replaced the painting into the pile. “Trust me, I’m not that complicated.”

“No? I guess we’ll find out. Follow me.”

We entered a small closet that was packed full with clothing and period costumes. He yanked out a peasant style dress and held it in front of me then shoved it back onto the rack. He did the same with several silky, sheer dresses but then grunted and returned them to the rack.

He looked me up and down. “The ripped jeans will work, but you need a different shirt.

I glanced down at my faded jeans that had both knees ripped out and a tear across the thigh. “I’m wearing these? I was kind of looking forward to one of these soft dresses.” I rubbed my hand along the row of dresses.

“They don’t suit you.” He walked to the end of the rack, pulled out a package, and ripped it open.

I stared down at it in utter disappointment. “But that is a man’s undershirt. That’s what I’m suited for, the prestigious wife-beater shirt?”

He looked up at me. “Who’s the artist here? You or me?”

“You, I guess, but I’m beginning to question your artistic intuition some.”

He handed me the shirt. “Bathroom is down that hallway.” He pointed around the corner.

I grabbed the shirt and plodded away.

“And lose the bra,” he called.

“Beginning to regret this whole thing,” I yelled back to him. The tank top covered enough that I didn’t feel too self conscious without a bra, but I still instinctually walked out with my arms crossed over my breasts.

Jude was sitting on his stool and looked up from his paints as I stepped around the corner. He laughed.

“Well, that makes me feel better,” I said angrily.

“Sorry. You look fine. It’s just that yesterday you laid out by the pool in a suit that rivaled two bandages, and today you’re shy about wearing a man’s undershirt.”

“And now I feel slutty for wearing the suit. This little endeavor is doing nothing for my self-confidence.”

“Nothing wrong with a little sluttiness,” he quipped.

“That’s it. I’m done.” I turned and headed back down the hall. I hadn’t even heard him move, but suddenly, he had hold of my arm.

“I’m just teasing you, Eden.” He pushed my hair back from my face, and the touch of his calloused fingertips lingered on my skin long after he’d dropped his hand. “You’re not slutty.” He stared at my face a long time. “You’re incredible,” he said quietly. And then in the dark, dimly lit hallway, his face leaned closer to mine and I thought a kiss would follow. But he held himself back. Or it was entirely possible that I’d just imagined the kiss because I truly wanted it. Then it dawned on me that the steely reserve I’d worked so hard to convince Finley of this morning