I looked away. I felt hot and angry, and my chest was tight with a feeling Wilson always seemed to stir in me.
“I'd rather not.”
“Why?” Wilson sounded genuinely confused by my refusal, since I was usually eager to discuss my carvings with him.
“Why do you want my explanation? What do you see when you look at it?” I said crossly. Wilson withdrew his hand from the sculpture and grabbed my braid where it hung over my shoulder. He tugged it gently, wrapping it around his hand as he did.
“What's wrong?”
“Nothing's wrong. I'm preoccupied,” I protested. “And my art is not about what I see. It's about what I feel. And right now I don't really want to discuss what I feel.” I tried to pull my hair free from his hand, but he wound it tighter, pulling me toward him.
“I see limbs and love and lust,” Wilson stated flatly. I stopped resisting, and my eyes rose to his. Wilson's gaze was wide and frank, but his jaw was clenched as if he knew he was crossing that invisible line he had drawn for himself.
“I'm not surprised you see those things,” I said softly.
“Why?” His eyes were intense, and I was suddenly furious. I was in love with Wilson, no doubt about it, but I would not be toyed with, and I sure as hell wasn't going to play kissy face ten minutes after Pamela left.
“You've just spent the evening with Pamela,” I reminded him sweetly. “She is a beautiful woman.”
Wilson's eyes flashed, and he dropped my braid, turning back toward the sculpture. I could tell he was mentally counting to ten. If I made him angry, it was his own fault. What did he think I was going to do? Wrap myself around him after he had ignored me off and on for months? I wasn't that girl. But maybe he thought I was. I took several deep breaths and ignored the tension that simmered between us. It was thick enough to slice and serve with a big dollop of denial. He took several steps, his hands fisted in his hair, putting some distance between us.
I stood my ground, waiting for him to make the next move. I had no idea what he was doing here. And he didn't seem to know either. When he looked at me again, his mouth was set in a grim line, and his eyes held a note of pleading, as if he needed to convince me of something.
“You said your art is about what you feel, not what you see. I told you what I see. Now you tell me what you feel,” he demanded.
“What are we talking about, Wilson?” I shot back. I walked toward him, hands shoved in my pockets. “Are we talking about the sculpture?” He watched me as I approached, but I didn't stop until our toes were almost touching.
“If we're talking about the sculpture, fine. I see desire and belonging and love without space.” I said the words like I was a guide at an art museum, putting emphasis on the word space. “What do I feel? Well, that's easy. I've been at work all day. I'm tired, Wilson. And I'm hungry. And I don't like Pamela. There. That's what I feel. How about you?”
Wilson looked at me like he wanted to shake me until my teeth rattled. Then he just shook his head and walked to the door. “I'm sorry I asked, Blue,” he sighed. He sounded weary and resigned, like one of those TV dads just trying to tolerate his teen-aged daughter. “Goodnight, Blue.”
I was too confused and befuddled to even respond. He walked out of my apartment without another word.
Chapter Twenty-Five
I spent a ridiculously long time curling my hair. When I finished, it hung in shiny dark waves down my back. I took great care applying dramatic makeup, more than I'd worn in months. I thought it suitable for an artist at her first exhibit. I had splurged on a cocktail dress that would highlight my eyes, and the electric blue was exactly the same shade. It hadn't been very expensive, but I was crossing my fingers that it didn't look cheap. It had small cap sleeves and a high neckline, but it draped lower in the back, almost to my waist. It skimmed my curves without being too tight or suggestive, and it ended just above the knee. I found a pair of high-heeled sandals to match. I thought I looked pretty good and squealed a little when I was ready. I looked grown up and alluring but sophisticated too, like Tiffa. I waited just inside my door, listening for Wilson to leave his apartment. If he and Pamela were meeting her parents for dinner, he would be leaving soon. I didn't have to wait long. Wilson strolled out of his flat and started down the stairs at exactly 6:30.
I calmly locked my door and walked toward the front door, just like I planned, reaching the base of the staircase before Wilson did. He was scrolling through his phone, but when he heard the click of my heels, he glanced up and his eyes widened. I tried not to smile. I had desperately wanted that reaction. He could think about me the whole time he was out with Pamela. I hoped he had a rotten time. His eyes traveled up and down the length of me and seemed to get stuck on my legs. It was all I could do to not giggle. I cleared my throat instead. His eyes snapped up to mine and he glowered at me. Wait. That wasn't what I wanted. Blushing, stammering, compliments – all of that was good. Glowering looks were not part of the plan.
“Where are you off to?” His voice sounded funny. Almost angry.
“Out,” I said lightly.
“I see.” Wilson's expression was indecipherable. “That frock's a bit short.”
“Really?” I laughed, incredulous. I looked down at the hem that really wasn't very short. “And why exactly do you care how short my skirt is?”
“I don't,” Wilson replied brusquely. He definitely did. Maybe he was jealous. That was a good thing. A very good thing. I shrugged and walked past him toward the door. My hair brushed against the bare skin of my back. Wilson cursed.