Ignited
Page 12
I froze, my eyes drawn to an area just below the model’s left dimple. Was that . . . ?
I bent closer, then sucked in air. It was a tattoo.
More than that, it was the tattoo of a Latin expression. Ad astra. To the stars.
Automatically, my hand snaked around to my own back, just below my own dimple. To my own tattoo of those exact words. Words that I’d grown up with because they were my father’s favorite saying.
I stepped back so that I could take in the entire portrait. It was me. I had no doubt anymore. That was my waistline. My hair. Even the way that the model’s head was tilted slightly to the side, the way I often did when I was thinking.
I’d been staring at myself, interpreting my own portrait, and I hadn’t even known it.
More than that, I’d had no idea that Cole was using me as a subject.
What the hell?
I thought about all the times I’d sunbathed on the roof of the condo with Angie. The times that Evan had taken all of us out on his boat.
Cole had been watching me?
And not just watching me, but studying me.
Restless, I moved around the room, realizing as I did that the canvas on the easel wasn’t the only image of me. Rough sketches littered a worktable, and as I looked down, I found myself staring back into my own eyes, taking in the curve of my own cheek, the swell of my own breasts.
Empirically, the work was exceptional. But that wasn’t what intrigued me.
Cole wanted me.
At the very least he was attracted to me, intrigued by me.
Obsessed with me.
That, apparently, was something we had in common.
So why the hell was he fighting so hard to stay away from me?
I drew in another breath and looked around this bright, airy room, seeing it this time as Cole might see it. It was filled with me. Or, at least, a version of me.
But the girl on the canvas and in those sketches was filled with light. She suggested purity and sweetness. There was nothing harsh or secretive about her.
She was me—and yet she wasn’t. And the pleasure I’d been feeling began to shift into something cold and unpleasant.
I don’t know who Cole saw when he looked at me, but he wasn’t seeing Katrina Laron, or any of the other names I’d used throughout the years.
He wasn’t even seeing Catalina Rhodes, the girl I’d started life as, but who had been erased long ago.
Had he not really been looking at me at all?
Or did he see something in me that I’d been hiding from everyone? Including myself?
six
I’d planned to go straight from the gallery to The Drake hotel, where I was meeting Sloane and Angie for a liquid lunch before Sloane and I branched off to discuss Angie’s bachelorette party. That would have been the smart thing to do, considering I could have walked between the two locations in under fifteen minutes, and the drive would take less than five.
But I was restless and out of sorts, and so I detoured from River North all the way to my soon-to-be new neighborhood of Roscoe Village, adding an hour to my travel time when you factored in the return trip and traffic. Not to mention the minutes that would tick by as I sat in the car and gazed at the second thing in my life I was obsessing about.
Like Cole, my house was going to need a lot of TLC. Unlike Cole, its curb appeal in its present state left a lot to be desired.
Then again, that was why I’d been able to get it cheap. Or relatively cheap. Considering the house consisted of less than one thousand square feet, had only one bathroom, and needed all new appliances, I wasn’t really sure that the six figures I was shelling out for the property could be considered “cheap” in anyone’s book.
But the place was about to be mine, and that made it worth any price to me.
Maybe that’s why I’d felt compelled to come here after seeing those drawings. They’d left me feeling edgy and unsure of who I was and what I wanted. And the fact that they had been so meticulously and lovingly created by Cole left me just as confused about what he wanted.
Considering all the canvases devoted to my image, you’d think he would’ve seized the opportunity to take me. But he’d walked away, and now my head was all but spinning.
The house soothed me. It was tangible. It was wood and brick and stone and nails.
With the house, what you saw was what you got.
With Cole, not so much.
I sighed, because that was the bottom line, wasn’t it? Why I’d driven miles out of my way and was going to end up late to meet my friends? Because every second of every day my mind was trying to unravel the mystery that was Cole. And not doing a very good job of it, either.
Frustrated, I got out of the car and walked to the front porch. I pressed my face against the window and looked inside, noting the battered hardwood floors that I would soon be sanding and refinishing. The dingy walls that seemed to cry out for a coat of paint.
This was more than a house, I realized. It was an anchor. Nine-hundred and twenty-four square feet tying me to Chicago and this life and my friends.
Katrina Laron.
Somewhere along the way, that’s the girl I’d settled on.
I pressed my forehead against the glass and sighed. Had I really just been griping about not being able to figure out Cole? Had I actually been frustrated because he saw me as pure and innocent? Pretty unfair considering I changed who I was every five minutes.
Hypocrite, thy name is Katrina. Or Catalina. Occasionally even Kathy.
God, I really was a train wreck.
Because the house didn’t yet belong to me, I technically wasn’t allowed inside. Technicalities rarely bothered me, though, because they only became a problem if you were caught breaking the rules. And even then, I could usually talk my way out of it.
The key was stored in the real estate lockbox, to which I also didn’t have access. I’d been here before, though, usually with my agent, Cyndee, and I’d been around the block enough times to know that one never misses an opportunity.
So when she punched in the combination, I’d paid attention to the code. I recalled it now easily enough—my father didn’t give a flip about my grades in school, but fail to remember something he told me to memorize, and I’d end up grounded for a week.
I entered the code, grabbed the key, and let myself in.
The air was stale and thick, and already stifling even though it wasn’t yet noon. But I breathed in deep anyway, because this stale air and everything surrounding it was going to be mine soon.
There was no furniture, so I didn’t sit. And I hadn’t come with any particular purpose, so I just started to wander, taking in the rooms, imagining how I would fix them up. Knowing that I could fix them up.
I sighed, understanding now why I’d been so determined to come here. Maybe I couldn’t get what I wanted from Cole. But I could damn sure get this house to fall into line.
It didn’t take long to circle through the living room, kitchen, bedrooms, and bath. I took a peek at the backyard, then turned back toward the front door, my car, and my friends.
I was about to step out onto the porch when my cell phone rang. I dug it out of the back pocket of my jeans, then sucked in a breath when I saw the caller ID. Cole.
I hesitated a moment, but there was no way I was going to let this call roll to voicemail, even if I should. So I bit my lower lip, then pressed my thumb on the green button.
I didn’t, however, say anything. Just my little nod to passive-aggressiveness.
I bent closer, then sucked in air. It was a tattoo.
More than that, it was the tattoo of a Latin expression. Ad astra. To the stars.
Automatically, my hand snaked around to my own back, just below my own dimple. To my own tattoo of those exact words. Words that I’d grown up with because they were my father’s favorite saying.
I stepped back so that I could take in the entire portrait. It was me. I had no doubt anymore. That was my waistline. My hair. Even the way that the model’s head was tilted slightly to the side, the way I often did when I was thinking.
I’d been staring at myself, interpreting my own portrait, and I hadn’t even known it.
More than that, I’d had no idea that Cole was using me as a subject.
What the hell?
I thought about all the times I’d sunbathed on the roof of the condo with Angie. The times that Evan had taken all of us out on his boat.
Cole had been watching me?
And not just watching me, but studying me.
Restless, I moved around the room, realizing as I did that the canvas on the easel wasn’t the only image of me. Rough sketches littered a worktable, and as I looked down, I found myself staring back into my own eyes, taking in the curve of my own cheek, the swell of my own breasts.
Empirically, the work was exceptional. But that wasn’t what intrigued me.
Cole wanted me.
At the very least he was attracted to me, intrigued by me.
Obsessed with me.
That, apparently, was something we had in common.
So why the hell was he fighting so hard to stay away from me?
I drew in another breath and looked around this bright, airy room, seeing it this time as Cole might see it. It was filled with me. Or, at least, a version of me.
But the girl on the canvas and in those sketches was filled with light. She suggested purity and sweetness. There was nothing harsh or secretive about her.
She was me—and yet she wasn’t. And the pleasure I’d been feeling began to shift into something cold and unpleasant.
I don’t know who Cole saw when he looked at me, but he wasn’t seeing Katrina Laron, or any of the other names I’d used throughout the years.
He wasn’t even seeing Catalina Rhodes, the girl I’d started life as, but who had been erased long ago.
Had he not really been looking at me at all?
Or did he see something in me that I’d been hiding from everyone? Including myself?
six
I’d planned to go straight from the gallery to The Drake hotel, where I was meeting Sloane and Angie for a liquid lunch before Sloane and I branched off to discuss Angie’s bachelorette party. That would have been the smart thing to do, considering I could have walked between the two locations in under fifteen minutes, and the drive would take less than five.
But I was restless and out of sorts, and so I detoured from River North all the way to my soon-to-be new neighborhood of Roscoe Village, adding an hour to my travel time when you factored in the return trip and traffic. Not to mention the minutes that would tick by as I sat in the car and gazed at the second thing in my life I was obsessing about.
Like Cole, my house was going to need a lot of TLC. Unlike Cole, its curb appeal in its present state left a lot to be desired.
Then again, that was why I’d been able to get it cheap. Or relatively cheap. Considering the house consisted of less than one thousand square feet, had only one bathroom, and needed all new appliances, I wasn’t really sure that the six figures I was shelling out for the property could be considered “cheap” in anyone’s book.
But the place was about to be mine, and that made it worth any price to me.
Maybe that’s why I’d felt compelled to come here after seeing those drawings. They’d left me feeling edgy and unsure of who I was and what I wanted. And the fact that they had been so meticulously and lovingly created by Cole left me just as confused about what he wanted.
Considering all the canvases devoted to my image, you’d think he would’ve seized the opportunity to take me. But he’d walked away, and now my head was all but spinning.
The house soothed me. It was tangible. It was wood and brick and stone and nails.
With the house, what you saw was what you got.
With Cole, not so much.
I sighed, because that was the bottom line, wasn’t it? Why I’d driven miles out of my way and was going to end up late to meet my friends? Because every second of every day my mind was trying to unravel the mystery that was Cole. And not doing a very good job of it, either.
Frustrated, I got out of the car and walked to the front porch. I pressed my face against the window and looked inside, noting the battered hardwood floors that I would soon be sanding and refinishing. The dingy walls that seemed to cry out for a coat of paint.
This was more than a house, I realized. It was an anchor. Nine-hundred and twenty-four square feet tying me to Chicago and this life and my friends.
Katrina Laron.
Somewhere along the way, that’s the girl I’d settled on.
I pressed my forehead against the glass and sighed. Had I really just been griping about not being able to figure out Cole? Had I actually been frustrated because he saw me as pure and innocent? Pretty unfair considering I changed who I was every five minutes.
Hypocrite, thy name is Katrina. Or Catalina. Occasionally even Kathy.
God, I really was a train wreck.
Because the house didn’t yet belong to me, I technically wasn’t allowed inside. Technicalities rarely bothered me, though, because they only became a problem if you were caught breaking the rules. And even then, I could usually talk my way out of it.
The key was stored in the real estate lockbox, to which I also didn’t have access. I’d been here before, though, usually with my agent, Cyndee, and I’d been around the block enough times to know that one never misses an opportunity.
So when she punched in the combination, I’d paid attention to the code. I recalled it now easily enough—my father didn’t give a flip about my grades in school, but fail to remember something he told me to memorize, and I’d end up grounded for a week.
I entered the code, grabbed the key, and let myself in.
The air was stale and thick, and already stifling even though it wasn’t yet noon. But I breathed in deep anyway, because this stale air and everything surrounding it was going to be mine soon.
There was no furniture, so I didn’t sit. And I hadn’t come with any particular purpose, so I just started to wander, taking in the rooms, imagining how I would fix them up. Knowing that I could fix them up.
I sighed, understanding now why I’d been so determined to come here. Maybe I couldn’t get what I wanted from Cole. But I could damn sure get this house to fall into line.
It didn’t take long to circle through the living room, kitchen, bedrooms, and bath. I took a peek at the backyard, then turned back toward the front door, my car, and my friends.
I was about to step out onto the porch when my cell phone rang. I dug it out of the back pocket of my jeans, then sucked in a breath when I saw the caller ID. Cole.
I hesitated a moment, but there was no way I was going to let this call roll to voicemail, even if I should. So I bit my lower lip, then pressed my thumb on the green button.
I didn’t, however, say anything. Just my little nod to passive-aggressiveness.
