Again. It was so much easier to love Sebastian—with her hands, her mouth, her body, and her heart—than to deal with her emotions about her mom’s infirmities or Magnolia Gardens, or even the commissions.
She pulled his mouth down to hers and kissed him until she couldn’t think about anything else, until he grabbed both bottles and set them on the bench. Then he lifted her, and everything started all over again.
This was the only place she wanted to be—in Sebastian’s arms, thinking about nothing but him.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Charlie stood in front of the mirror in the ladies’ room of the San Francisco War Memorial Opera House, repairing the lipstick Sebastian had just deliciously kissed off her mouth. It was a lovely old building with classic Roman Doric columns—columns behind which they’d escaped for the luscious kisses that made everything worth it.
Since that day in her workshop two weeks ago, all the parties Sebastian had taken her to seemed to blend together. Tonight’s benefit was for... Well, she couldn’t remember. They were on the tail end of a dozen galas, benefits, and events where Sebastian was hell-bent on making her name as well-known as his.
She left the chattering crowd of women, returning to the grand entrance hall. Voices echoed in the high, vaulted ceiling, and tonight’s crowd seemed almost impenetrable. She felt invisible in the crush, and honestly, it wasn’t a bad thing. Charlie found herself craving quiet, empty moments more and more.
Just as Sebastian had predicted, the commissions were rolling in. So many, in fact, that she’d had to use the scheduler on her iPad. What’s more, she was being written about—not as Sebastian Montgomery’s new bit of arm candy, but as an artist. After the Regent Hotel opening, her work had been roundly praised. Even, shockingly, called genius. Soon after, Sebastian had convinced a group of reporters to come to her place in Los Altos, and then one newspaper had ended up doing a Sunday spread on Will Franconi’s rock garden teeming with her Zantis. After learning he was a fan of The Outer Limits as well, she’d sent him a crate full. The commissions were mostly for garden works, smaller pieces than the elephant, rams, and lion. But an eccentric old guy from Palm Springs was fascinated with the T-Rex and was considering it for his desert ranch.
Sebastian was opening all the doors he’d promised. The possibility of a huge art career was deep in her bones now, not to mention a much bigger bank balance that brought her giant steps closer to making sure her mother could stay in the comfort of Magnolia Gardens.
He’d done so much for her. So how could she tell him she was tired right down to the roots of her hair?
What’s more, she wanted, needed, craved the time to finish the chariot race. It turned her fingers to fire as she worked. The sculpture was her shining vision, and she could visualize the sun pouring through the glass ceiling, her stallions glowing like mythical creatures in flight.
Yet there was always another piece to slip in here or there, projects she hated to admit that she completed on autopilot as quickly as she could. Her only goal was to return to the stallions and their broken chariot. She hadn’t even found a moment to start Noah’s dinosaur.
Charlie sank down on a bench in an alcove out of direct traffic. She wasn’t hiding. Okay, maybe she was. Just for a little while, until Sebastian found her and it was time to start schmoozing again. But her legs—and her soul, if she was being totally honest with herself—felt like they might give out if she didn’t take a moment’s respite.
She’d always assumed turning her art into a career would be a good thing. But she’d finally learned the downside to success—working on commission meant you weren’t always doing what you were inspired to do, just what you had to do.
Which only made inspiration harder to find.
Take last week, when she’d visited a prospective client—God, now they were clients! The woman wanted a cherub or something equally mediocre for her garden. And Charlie had felt absolutely nothing. She couldn’t have summoned a vision if the lady had offered a million dollars. But, with big Magnolia Gardens bills to pay, she’d signed up to make a cherub. Somehow she had to find a way to feel like an artist again rather than a worker on an assembly line.
She thought about slipping off her high heels to rub her feet, but, despite being sidelined, she was sure someone would see her. Closing her eyes for a few precious moments, she willed every thought to drain away. Breathe in, breathe out. Maybe it was the clearing of her mind that suddenly let in the voice. Or maybe it was Sebastian’s name that made her prick up her ears.
“She’s just a little nobody Sebastian found in the wilds of Los Altos. One of his projects. You know how much he likes to save the underprivileged.”
Charlie didn’t have to peek around the edge of her alcove to know that voice. Whitney Collins. Evan’s wife sucked up to important people with the nicest, sweetest voice. The rest of the time, she was catty and mean.
“Now she’s the toast of San Francisco because she’s sleeping with him. Although what he sees in her is beyond me. I swear, she reminds me of an undomesticated animal. You can dress up the ratty cat, but we all know what’s still beneath the sequins and pearls, don’t we?” The women laughed. “Don’t breathe a word of what I’ve said, of course. Evan will get his shorts all bunched up, even though I’ve told him in no uncertain terms that he’d better not bring home one of her creations.” Her tone suggested Charlie’s work was something you’d stuff in a doggie-waste bag.
Charlie slipped off her shoes and curled her feet up on the bench. Really, if she didn’t care what Whitney said about her, then she really didn’t care if anyone caught her massaging her toes. She recognized some of the other voices joining Whitney’s, women who had fawned over Charlie earlier, told her how fabulous her art was, begged her to fit them into her schedule. Of course, Sebastian had been at her side. They were the mean-girl clique from every teenage TV movie, their glittery world filled with sycophants and backbiters.
Charlie wanted honesty and reality, and while there were absolutely some very nice people at these parties, too many in this brightly swirling society were on the opposite end of the spectrum. Which was why Charlie didn’t care enough to feel hurt by the gossip. She loved the things she found in junkyards, and she’d never stop no matter what they said. Fortunately, there were enough people like Sebastian and Walter Braedon to drown out their catty negativity. As far as Charlie was concerned, all Whitney’s comments did was reveal the mean-spirited woman she truly was, with beauty barely skin deep.
More than once, Charlie had wondered why—and how—Sebastian thrived in this world. But whether she understood it or not, the fact was that he did. She loved him, so of course she would fully support him in anything he wanted or needed to do.
And yet...she realized how important it was to him that she love it just as much, that she fit in and glitter as brightly as the rest of the peacocks. Yes, she’d met people she liked—the Mavericks, Walter Braedon, and many others—but there were far too many like Whitney Collins.
The very last thing in the world Charlie wanted was to hurt Sebastian in any way. But this social whirl was becoming harder and harder to live in.
No, she hadn’t forgotten why she was doing this. To pay for her mother’s care. And, honestly, to finally receive some validation and recognition for her art. But she’d begun to wonder if she wanted this new path of success and endless commissions as much as Sebastian wanted it for her. There were so many things she missed from her life before he’d walked into it and changed everything.