Aliyana froze, her tongue just about to lick a blob of Nutella from her thumb. A blush coating her cheeks, she lowered her hand and grabbed for a napkin.
Clearing her throat, she shook her head and whispered, “No.”
As she whispered the word, I felt myself relax. I hadn’t even realized I’d been bracing myself for her to tell me she had some rich, good-looking fuck as a boyfriend… someone who treated her like a queen.
“Why?” I asked abruptly, and Aliyana jerked back in her chair. I shifted on mine too, hearing a second too late how aggressive that sounded. Aliyana’s eyes had dropped to the table.
I was such a fuck-up.
Leaning forward, elbows on the table, I added, “Just thought a woman like you would have a line of men a mile long following you ‘round.” I ran my hand down my beard, fucking embarrassed. I was shoving my foot further into my mouth at every turn.
And this was why I preferred to be left the hell alone.
A smile tugged on Aliyana’s mouth and she shrugged. “Just never met a man that I really connected with, you know? Never felt that bolt of lightning that leaves me breathless, I suppose.”
“No boyfriends?” I asked, now curious.
Her nose crinkled up, those dimples of hers popping out all over the place. “Not really. I’ve kinda thrown myself into my work these last few years. Never met a man who’s my type.” The way she blushed bright red and fiddled with the empty sugar packet again had me itching to ask what was her type.
After seconds of wondering, I finally just fucking asked. “And what’s that?”
Aliyana took a deep breath, her full tits pushing against her shirt, and met my eyes. “A man who’s protective, strong, dark… artistic, passionate… cultured…” She trailed off, rubbing her pink lips together, and I froze.
Her brown eyes pierced mine like she could see through to my fucking dark soul. I shifted under her scrutiny and felt my heart begin to race.
Forcing myself to look away, I picked up my brioche and ate it in silence. That fog of tension was back around us again, but I pushed it out of my mind. I just needed to get through this breakfast.
“Can I ask a question?” Aliyana said, and I sat back in my chair, my brioche now demolished. I flicked my chin in response, giving her the okay. “Why don’t you want anyone to know who you are?”
And there it was. The one question everyone wanted to know. Why was Elpidio a recluse?
I shrugged. “Not into the whole fame thing.”
“Then why the exhibition? And why now?” She pushed.
Glancing out over the Puget Sound, I raked my hair back with my fingers. What was I meant to say? I was locked up for distributing ‘class A’ drugs on the University of Alabama’s property, and in the process, nearly ruined my brother’s shot at the NFL. Oh, that’s right, you don’t know. My brother is Austin Carillo, number eighty-three for the Seahawks and regarded one of the best wide receivers in the country. But that’s now. A few years back, I was running a street crew dealing drugs. Oh, and I sold some fucked-up snow to a Tide player and he OD’d. So I’ve been serving ten years inside but got out a couple weeks ago after only five years because I ratted out a big-time cocaine supplier.
I couldn’t tell her none of that shit, so I answered, “Vin wanted it, and I told him as long as I didn’t have to deal with people, he could do what the fuck he wanted.”
Aliyana’s head tilted to the side as she regarded me. “And how and where did you meet Vin? I can’t imagine you ran in the same circles.”
If only she knew.
She edged forward, waiting for my answer.
“Around.”
“Around?” she questioned.
“Around,” I said a bit firmer to let her know I wasn’t saying shit.
Slumping back in her chair, she began eating again, only pausing to quietly say, “You’ve gotten me more than intrigued, Elpi.”
My forehead pulled down to a frown.
She must have seen my expression and added, “Your artwork floors me, so tragically beautiful.” My gut clenched as she spoke those words. Tragically beautiful…
She dropped her croissant, letting out a single laugh. “I remember the first time I saw a picture of one of your sculptures. It was a piece in a magazine on Vin Galanti, and he did nothing but talk about his protégé, the reclusive and mysterious Elpidio. He’d just loaned one of your pieces to the Met as part of a marble statue contemporary exhibit, an exhibit of sculptors who still adhered to the old-fashioned hammer and chisel techniques.” Aliyana’s eyes lost their focus as she pushed her fingers through a small pile of sugar granules that had fallen from the packet she’d used earlier.
“Vin showed your first piece, the only work I’d seen in pictures from you.” A tiny smile pulled on her lips. “And the piece that is still my favorite today.”
I knew which one she meant. The only piece I could barely look at now without breaking.