A Sketch Away from Perfect

Mr. Billionaire

Damien

What an unexpected pleasure. I watch Harper’s cheeks flush as our shoulders touch in the limo. Honestly, I should be sitting further away from her. There’s plenty of seating in the limo’s expansive back section after all. But since I first laid eyes on her, I’ve been utterly captivated.

Today, I just wanted someone who checked all the right boxes for the dress. Tonight, I’m realizing I might have found someone who checks all the right boxes for me.

“Have you been to an art gallery opening before?” I ask conversationally, my hand still boldly laid over hers. I’m not a man who lets what he wants get away.

She swallows, and it draws my attention to the elegant lines of her neck. “No, Damien. I haven’t.”

“I think you’ll find it rather entertaining,” I continue. “Especially given your art background. Or am I making too many assumptions about your username? Are you an art history major?”

Harper pauses, then admits, “I’m an artist. Mostly a painter.”

Intriguing. “Really? Then again, I suppose given the criteria for living at Carleton Artist Lofts, you must dabble in something.”

Her sea green eyes flash and I know I’ve hit a nerve, but then, I was trying to. I hide my smile and wait for her to put me in my place.

“Actually, I don't ‘dabble.’ It’s my career.” She is now glaring at me. Ah, the passion in that glare!

I feel my c**k twitch. I feign surprise. “Oh. I didn’t know. Have you sold much?”

That’s a sharp blow, I can tell, and her shoulders slump–with mutiny, not defeat. “Not yet.”

“Pity. I’m sure your work is lovely.” I smile.

She looks me up and down, her eyes narrowed. “You’re winding me up on purpose.”

Now I’m really surprised. “Huh. I’ll be damned. Most of the women I associate with don’t catch on this quickly.”

“Most of the women you associate with are probably idiots,” she mutters.

I throw my head back and laugh. “I can’t argue with you there. But, you know, alliances with wealthy families whose daughters haven’t had to do jack s**t but get mani-pedis and swim around in their pools don’t always make it as interesting for me.”

“Then I’d suggest you stop trying to ally yourself with wealthy families’ daughters before your heir comes out with an IQ of two,” Harper replies.

I grimace. “I am in no hurry to have an heir, trust me.”

“Aren’t you graying at the temples?” she needles me. “Maybe you should get on that.”

It’s all right. I know just how to get her back. “Are you volunteering?”

Her eyes widen. Her jaw goes slack. “What?”

* * *

Harper

I think I’m dying of shock, but I’m not sure if I’m having heart palpitations because I’m horrified—or interested! Which, in turn, horrifies me even more.

I’m not that desperate for money–am I? I shriek in my head. But then, I know it has nothing to do with money. I’m sure any woman with a pulse given that offer would climb him like he’s a jungle gym just because of how handsome he is. He’s also well-spoken and confident.

I remember what he said about my art and fold my arms over my peaked n*****s. Down girl.

“I’m joking,” Damien laughs. He boops me on the nose, and I want to bite his finger off. “I just wanted to see what you would do.”

“You like pushing people’s buttons, don’t you?” I say flatly. It’s not a question.

Damien winks at me. “It’s what I do for a living, and it’s immensely entertaining. You don’t seem so bad at it yourself. Maybe you should come work for me.”

“I already have a job I love, thanks,” I reply.

“Starving artist?” he teases.

I purse my lips. “I’m not starving.”

“Right. Because a woman like you likes ‘long walks on the beach’ and ‘a good party,’” he quotes.

I groan, dropping my head into my hands. “I really need to edit my profile.”

“Did Miss McKenzy Jasper come up with that?” he guesses. Correctly.

“Did you hire a stalker or do the work yourself?” I ask, exasperated.

He chuckles. “The Internet is a wonderful invention.”

“So, you do your own stalking. Good to know,” I add.

We pull up to the venue I’d seen online, and I watch women in dazzling dresses step out of limousines, town cars, and other vehicles more expensive than a house on Lake Minnetonka. They swish down a red carpet, photographers crowded on either side, taking pictures of them and their dashing partners all wearing Armani or something similar.

“I’m going to be on the cover of Time, aren’t I, showing up with you?” I gasp, feeling sick to my stomach.

“Probably the entertainment section of the Star Tribune. I’m not that much of a celebrity,” Damien chuckles.

Fuck. What about Scott? What if he sees this?

Then again, McKenzy did point out that he’s not paying my rent, and he never asked me not to go on any other dates.

I’m not going to know any of these people. They’re going to think I’m some worthless outsider.

“On my arm, you are just another bauble. No one will even notice you,” Damien reassures me.

That should have been insulting, but strangely, it makes me feel better. I am a Rolex watch.

I square my shoulders. “Okay, let’s do this.”

Damien grins, and then it’s our turn on the red carpet. Frederick, our chauffeur, strides confidently around the limo to open the door and let us out. My date gets out first, then holds out his hand to me.

I take a deep breath. I am just a Rolex watch and take his hand.

The second I step out of the limo, people start snapping pictures. Film cameras point in our direction, and reporters start shouting.

“Mr. Blackwood! Mr. Blackwood! Who are you escorting tonight?” is the gist of the shouting, a cacophony of voices overlapping and fighting to one-up each other.

I suppress a glare and force a smile instead, waving to the crowd. “Just a bauble?” I hiss out the side of my mouth.

Damien’s shoulders shake with suppressed mirth. “I may have under-exaggerated,” he whispers back, tucking my hand into his arm. To the crowd, he smiles widely and says, “This is Miss Harper Ward, an artist in her own right. I am honored she agreed to pause her very busy schedule to spend an evening with me.”

I look up at him, all the blood in my head draining to my toes. Oh, my. Did he just…

I’m going to have to call the teensy, weensy little coffee shop selling my work and give them a heads up. Lord only knows if his words will stick, but for now, I’ve got some buzz and The Witch’s Brew needs to be warned about paparazzi about to descend.

The reporters mumble amongst themselves, searching for me on their phones as we walk through the door and into the gallery itself.

“Did… did you just…?” I gawk at him. “You haven’t even seen my work!”

“I don’t have to. Only a fool pursues something with the kind of passion and dedication you do who isn’t any good at it, and you’re no fool. Though, if you’d like to show me some of your art sometime, I’d be delighted.” Damien smiles.

“I’d… I’d love to,” I find myself responding.

His eyes crinkle at the corner in a real, genuine smile this time. “Good.” We walk into the gallery, but at first, I can barely pull my eyes away from him. I blink a few times to clear my mind.

Finally, I manage to look past him and see a Michael Vernon. A lot of Michael Vernons.

While I’d assumed he’d be featured at the gallery opening tonight, I am shocked to see his work has taken up every gallery wall.

I have to stop myself from squealing and jumping around like a fangirl.

“So, this Michael Vernon, is he any good?” Damien asks.

My head snaps back around. “Are you…serious?”

He shrugs. “I’m not really an art aficionado. I generally depend on others to do my decorating at the office and at home. I’d like to know if it’s worth getting one of his paintings.”

I make a sound like air escaping a balloon. “You need me to tell you that Michael Vernon is a good artist?”

“Yes,” he replies, no teasing in his tone this time. “You’re a sharp young woman. I value your opinion.”

“He’s… Damien, he’s my favorite!” I gush, gesturing at the nearest painting. “Do you see his bold use of color and how the layering of the paint also reflects how weighted down the subject is? He finds beauty in the most ordinary, everyday people and can tell their whole life stories with one stroke of his brush! If I had the talent he has in one of his pinkies, I’d be over the moon!”

“Ah, Damien, you finally found one with some art sense,” a portly older man with a strategic combover, but a very nice suit, chortles as he turns to us. He has a white scarf draped over his shoulders in the universal I-am-an-art-aficionado look.

“Please, Julian. You know as well as I do that this is the first time I’ve shown up anywhere with a woman with any sense at all.” Damien gives me another of his eye-crinkling smiles. “I rather like it.”

I can feel my cheeks heating up.

“Tell me, young lady, what is it you do for a living?” Julian asks me. “I know you can’t possibly work for this stuffy old fart.”

“Old fart! I’m forty-five, you pompous ass!” Damien banters back.

“You forgot to add ‘fat’ this time. You must really like this one.” Julian’s eyes reflect his good humor. “I really am curious.”

I fidget with my clutch. “I’m… um… an artist, sir. A painter.”

Julian’s eyes light up. “Really? How exciting. And at the beginning of your career, no doubt. Damien always snaps up good potential before anyone else can, the bastard. And it’s not ‘sir.’ Please, call me Julian.” He extends his hand.

I clasp it, and he brings it to his lips. “Harper,” I respond. “Very nice to meet you.”

“Harper. What a lovely name.” Julian releases my hand.

“Harper is going to show me her work,” Damien states proudly.

Julian snorts. “What, you want to go over to her place to see her paintings? Come now, my dear Harper, don’t fall for that. I’m sure you have some pictures on your phone.”

Embarrassed, I still dutifully pull out my phone and scroll through my photos to a couple of examples of my artwork.

Julian draws a sharp breath and snatches my phone from me. “Why, these are exquisite! Damien, since when do you have any taste?! I must have this one for my villa in Toledo.”

“That’s in Spain,” Damien clarifies, in case I might think he means Ohio.

“How wonderful.” I smile at Julian. “I minored in Spanish.”

Damien looks intrigued. “Well, well, so many layers. Like your friend Michael Vernon’s paintings.”

“Friend? I wish…” I sigh.

“Oh, why of course, Harper. How remiss of me. Michael? Michael, over here!” Julian calls, waving to a man in a leather jacket, black boots, ripped jeans, and a T-shirt. When he turns around, I see it reads ‘Meh.’

But then I lift my eyes and see that Michael Vernon is walking toward us.

I think I may hyperventilate. The god of my world, gray-haired but still hanging onto his biker boy charm, is now standing in my presence.

“Michael, this is Harper,” Julian says, gesturing to me. “She’s an artist–a good one. Look.” He hands the Michael Vernon my phone.

He examines it, blowing up pictures with his fingers, tilting his head this way and that. “A young Picasso couldn’t ask for a better start.” He nods and hands my phone back to Julian, who hands it back to me.

I swear I’m going to faint. Or burst into tears. “Th-thank you, sir,” I whisper.

“Please, call me Michael. We’re colleagues in the same profession after all, Harper,” he says.

“Yes. Yes, of course. Thank you, Michael.” I manage to sound professional. I think. At least I didn’t squeak like a little mouse. Michael Vernon likes my work! My brain throws a party, complete with confetti poppers and fireworks.

If I die right now, I’ll die happy. And it’s all because of Damien.