Drawn By You: A Fusion Universe Novella Read online

  Drawn By You

  Anna Edwards

  Contents

  Drawn By You

  Quote

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Epilogue

  The Fusion Universe

  Acknowledgments

  Also by Anna Edwards

  About Anna Edwards

  Drawn By You

  A Fusion Universe Novella

  Anna Edwards

  Copyright © 2020 by Anna Edwards

  https://authorannaedwards.com

  All rights reserved. This book may not be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission from the author. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. All characters and storylines are the property of the author and your support and respect are appreciated. The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Cover Design by Kari March

  Editing by Tracy Roelle

  Proofreading by Sheena Taylor

  Published by Lady Boss Press, Inc

  "How you draw is a reflection of how you feel about the world. You're not capturing it, you're interpreting it." - Juliette Aristides

  Prologue

  Paige

  I put the final stroke to the background of the new picture I’m working on. It’s a gorgeous teal color I picked up in the art shop when I was in there last week. It had inspired me when I bought it, and I already have an idea of the way my picture will look.

  I never plan my artwork. I let inspiration take over when I paint, but I knew with the presence of the teal color it would have to involve some sort of peacock feather design. It’s calling out for it, and I intend to answer. First of all, though, I need to let the background paint dry. I was too impatient the other day and made the mistake of starting to work on the foreground too early, and the layer of wet paint beneath destroyed the detail of my picture. I ended up throwing it in the trash can and sulking around with a tub of ice-cream for the next few hours.

  Placing the paintbrush down on my pallet, I wipe my hands on a tatty cloth hanging from the easel and step back to check I haven’t missed any spots on the canvas. It looks beautiful. I can’t wait to start painting my picture…definitely peacock feathers.

  My stomach rumbles, a sign of its hunger, and I make my way to the kitchen area of my studio apartment to prepare myself some dinner. I was blessed to find this apartment. My mother died from cancer several years ago, but I grew up in this building in the apartment below where my father still lives. When this one became available, and I knew I had the money to pay the rent, I jumped at the chance to have it. It gives me independence, but at the same time, I’m still here for my father if he needs me, or I need him.

  The space I have isn’t massive, but it’s all I need with its luxury dark wooden floors and fluffy rugs everywhere to keep my feet warm. The apartment is divided into four areas: my kitchen with a small table for eating at, the lounge area with a couch that can convert to a bed if needed, the bedroom that’s big enough for a king-sized bed and with a bathroom attached, and my art studio, which I keep screened off from the rest of the apartment as it can get a little messy when I’m in the middle of a painting.

  The walls are a crisp white color with purple accents everywhere.. You could say I’m a bit of a perfectionist, making sure everything is matching and in place. The focal point of the room is the massive window looking out onto the city of Portland. It gives a stunning view and has inspired many a picture.

  I grab an apple from a purple glass bowl filled with a variety of fruits on the kitchen counter, and I take a crunching bite. I picked up the mail earlier and placed it beside the bowl but haven’t opened it yet, because I was desperate to paint, so while I’m at a loose end, waiting for the background to dry, I decide to read it. Popping the apple in my mouth and holding it there between my teeth, I check through the mail.

  Most of the letters are bills, but the postmark on one sends my heartbeat fluctuating. It’s from an art gallery I sent a couple of photos of my paintings to the other month, hoping to get them displayed. I quickly place all the other letters down and rip open the seal of the envelope. A quick scan of the contents sends a feeling of failure through my body. I’ve been rejected again. I spit the apple out of my mouth—I won’t be able to stomach anymore, and balling the letter up, I throw it into the nearby trash can.

  I don’t understand it. I can sell enough pictures through my own online store to make a living and afford the rent on my apartment, but I can’t get into the art galleries. I think my art style must be too much of a risk. It’s a fusion of contemporary technique and Renaissance style. I love it, but I guess without financial backing, I’m not a commodity worth taking a chance on.

  “Damn it.”

  I kick at one of the cabinets in the kitchen before returning to my art area. The canvas isn’t fully dry yet, but I need to paint. Picking up my brush, I select a light blue and start to outline the shape of a feather.

  “Alexa,” I call out. “Play my painting playlist, please.”

  She’s never been totally reliable. I listen out for her reply while selecting a darker blue and starting on the next layer of the feather.

  Before long, I lose myself in the strokes of paint and fall deeply in love with my artwork. I forget about the letter—it isn’t the first I’ve gotten, and I’m sure it won’t be the last. I know I can paint, and I’ll keep focusing on my work. I won’t let rejection destroy my confidence.

  An alarm sounds on my phone, and when I look down at it, I see it’s time for me to go to work. The pictures I sell provide for my bills, but I still need to earn a little more money to buy my art supplies. That’s where my second job comes in, and again it’s one I love.

  Placing the paintbrush down, I step back to take a look at my work. It really is perfect, even if I do say so myself. I give a little chuckle and disappear off into my bathroom. I need to shower away the paint covering most of my body before I get dressed into my uniform. I’m a waitress for the hottest new bar in Portland, Seduction.

  Chapter 1

  Tomas

  “I’ve heard fantastic things about this place. I can’t wait to try the food and drinks. You’re lucky to have it so close to your office.”

  My client, Jeremy Williams, is speaking enthusiastically as we walk into Seduction. It’s a relatively new bar in Portland but is already getting rave reviews. One of the owners, a woman I know as Addison, shows us to our table and introduces us to our waitress for the evening. We place our order from the well-thought-out menu and sit back in our plush chairs to relax. On the stage, there’s a man singing. I recognize him instantly as Jake Keller, and I tap my foot along to the music.

  “So what do you think about the Tuff table that sold for over a million last week at auction? I know it’s not the most expensive piece of his ever sold, but I questioned its authenticity when I saw it. I wouldn’t have paid that much. What about you?” Jeremy Williams interrogates me, interrupting my appreciation of the music.

  He’s a few years older than me, and like me, his entire life has revolved around the antiques business. However, my family has done rather better out of it than his, although I’m
not one to brag, unless required. What we don’t have in common is the same level of obsession with the business. I am passionate about it, don’t get me wrong, but I’m also able to hold a conversation on a number of different subjects: sport, politics—hell, I can even talk about baking if the company requires it, but Jeremy, no, he only has one topic of conversation, and it’s antiques.

  He’s been married for a few years, and I worry about his relationship with his wife, unless she’s as obsessed as him, of course. Can you imagine them getting their freak on and talking dirty to each other about Chesterfield sofas or Chinese Ming vases? Life is too short. It took me a while to realize it, though.

  I had an epiphany moment, if you like, one day while in the middle of a sale and getting bored with buying antiques. I left to spend the day walking around and looking at modern furniture in a local department store. I ended up having my apartment redecorated to a more contemporary style. My mother and father both hate it. My sister worries I’m having a mid-life crisis at thirty-two, and my brother just tells me to get laid more often—but as he’s currently working his way through the elite in Portland, that’s his answer to everything.

  I sit back in my seat and subject myself to more of the same old antiques talk with Jeremy. It’s what I agreed to when I took over the family business after my father’s early retirement with ill health, or should I say, with his desire to spend more time on the golf course, reducing his handicap.

  “I managed to get to see it in person before the auction. I’m certain it’s genuine, but it’s not a good specimen. It has a lot of damage. It’ll cost a lot to get it fixed properly, which will decrease the value in the short term. It isn’t a good investment. The Tuff table going in the Sotheby’s sale in London next week is a much better example of the period. I’ve a colleague flying over there for the sale. She’s going to send me a report,” I respond.

  “Are you thinking of investing?” Jeremy raises his eyebrow at me.

  “Depends on the condition.” I wink back.

  I know he’ll be on the phone later today arranging to travel to see it for himself. The fact I’m not flying to London to place a bid on it myself should tell him the table doesn’t interest me in the slightest, but alas, he’s not learned to play the game as well as I have yet. All talk and no action is the saying that applies here, I think.

  God, I’m bored.

  I turn back to listen to Jake just as he finishes his set and steps off-stage to take a break. Great, I’m going to have to listen to more antiques talk. Why did I agree to this dinner in the first place? Oh yes, my father wants me to approach Jeremy for an ottoman his business has listed. Apparently it will be perfect for the room my mother is redecorating but not at the estimated price being asked for in the catalog. My father wants to surprise my mother for her birthday, and I’m to get the ottoman with at least a fifty percent discount.

  Kill me now.

  I haven’t always felt this way about my work. It’s only been recently. Maybe I need to take a holiday. Get away for a few weeks and chill out on a beach in the middle of nowhere.

  Bermuda.

  St. Lucia.

  Maybe even farther afield.

  The Maldives.

  Who am I kidding?

  I have a company to run.

  The waitress brings us our food and drink, and I spend the rest of the meal discussing antiques with Jeremy, including agreeing on a fabulous deal for the ottoman my father wants. I drink a couple more glasses of wine than I probably should, but it’s the only way to get me to stop from falling asleep.

  I really am struggling with my love for the family business at the moment. I feel like an asshole because it’s given me opportunities in life I’d never have had without the profits my father made from antiques. I‘ve had the best education, I’ve traveled the world, and I have a fabulous lifestyle. I’m just an ungrateful brat. I have to get out of this funk.

  When I’ve finished my meal, I excuse myself from the table and head to the bar to order two glasses of the finest brandy to finish off our meal. Sitting on a stool at the bar is a stunning woman. She’s chatting animatedly with the bartender, Kat, who’s also another owner of the club. The woman laughs and captures my attention immediately. She’s got brown hair pulled up into a messy bun, and her blue eyes are full of life, not dead like mine are when I look in the mirror.

  She throws her head back and laughs animatedly at something Kat says. I look down from her face and over the curves of her body. She’s wearing the uniform of a waitress here, and it fits her like a glove. I’m compelled forward with an urgent need to get to know her better. This is the most inspired I’ve felt in months. I slide onto the stool next to her.

  “Excuse me, is this seat taken?” I ask.

  She turns her head and looks at me, smiling widely.

  “No, please, feel free.” The woman looks back to Kat, and I can’t help but notice the part-owner of the bar giving her a cheeky wink.

  “What can I get you, Mr. Johnson?” Kat asks.

  I greet her warmly with a smile. I’m well known in the bar.

  “Please, Kat. I’ve told you numerous times it’s Tomas.”

  “Sorry, force of habit,” Kat replies with a bow of her head. “What would you like? I can get it brought over to your table, if you like?”

  “No, it’s all right. I’ll wait, thanks.” I look over my shoulder to where Jeremy is looking at his phone. Most probably checking what sale catalogs have come out in the hour since we’ve been in the club. “I’ll have two Remy Martin 1738, and please have a glass of whatever you’d like for later,” I turn to the intoxicating lady sitting next to me. “Miss, can I get you a drink as well?”

  “Er…” She looks shocked to be asked. “I…er. I can’t—I’m working. Water only.” She points to her glass. “Thank you, though.”

  I bow my head to her in acknowledgement.

  “Of course, I hope you’ll allow me to add a drink to your tab, so you can have one after work.” I don’t know why I’m being overly persistent about offering her a drink. I probably sound like a real creep.

  “That would be lovely, thank you.” Her smile reaches her eyes with a twinkle of delight. Maybe I’m not coming across as a complete jerk.

  “Good.” I hold my hand out to the woman as Kat turns away and prepares the brandies. “My name is Tomas Johnson. It’s nice to meet you…”

  “Paige Lawrie. It’s good to meet you too. Are you enjoying your evening?”

  “Very much. This place has the best food. The crab cakes are to die for.”

  “I’ll let Mia know. They’re my favorite as well.” Paige chuckles, and I find myself leaning closer to her.

  I’ve near enough forgotten about Jeremy Williams. Do I really have to return to my table and talk to him?

  “What do you do here?” I ask.

  “I’m one of the waitresses.” She blushes red as though flustered by the admission. I know they have a lot of rich clientele here, and some would think waitressing is a lowly occupation—not me, though. “But I have a day job as well. I’m an artist.”

  “Artist?”

  My interest is piqued. I can never stop being a dealer of antiquities and art even when bored out of my brain by it.

  “Yes. I’m not well known or anything, but I make enough to pay the bills. What do you do?”

  Paige picks up the glass of water in front of her and takes a sip. I watch her lips open over the rim of the glass and feel myself getting heated. I’ve never had such an intense reaction to a woman before. I’ve dated, and I’ve had my share of lovers, but it’s like Paige is wrapping a spell around me and drawing me to her with every movement she makes.

  The moment is broken when someone taps me on the shoulder. I turn around to see it’s Jeremy.

  “I’m going to have to go, Tomas. I’m sorry. They just released the new catalog for the sale in Los Angeles next week. There are some amazing objects in there. It’s going to be a long night.” Jeremy ru
bs his hands together in glee. “You should get on it while you can.”

  “I will,” I reply and stand to shake his hand.

  “I’ll get the ottoman sent out tomorrow.”

  “Thank you.”

  Jeremy takes his leave and rushes out of the bar like a man on a mission. I should probably look at the catalog to see if there’s anything I can get a head start on making a bid for, but when Kat presents me with the brandies I ordered, I’m reminded where I am. I thank Kat and immediately turn my attention back to Paige.

  “Sorry about that, where were we?”

  “I asked what you do.”

  “Oh yes, I’m an antiques dealer. Nothing very exciting. It’s a completely boring subject, so if we could talk about anything else, I’d really appreciate it.”

  Paige laughs at my comment. “I have fifteen minutes left on my break, but I’m sure I can think of a different conversation starter. Let me think? Are you a Winterhawks fan?”

  I playfully fist pump the air. “I think it’s the first question I’ve been asked tonight that hasn’t involved antiques. Thank you.”

  “It’s all part of the service,” Paige jokes as Kat puts down my bill, and I sign for the drinks.

  Paige and I spend the next fifteen minutes talking about as many silly things as we possibly can. It’s the most fun I’ve had in a long time, and when it comes time for her to return to her shift, I sit alone at the bar nursing the two brandies, killing time until she gets off work.

  When she does finish, she comes back over to me.