Life: A Brush With Love Read online

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Epilogue

  What Comes Next?

  Want to Stalk Me?

  End-of-Book Stuff

  Other Books by Elise Noble

  Life

  Elise Noble

  Published by Undercover Publishing Limited

  Copyright © 2017 Elise Noble

  v8

  ISBN: 978-1-910954-43-0

  This book is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author.

  Edited by Nikki Mentges, NAM Editorial

  Cover art by Abigail Sins

  www.undercover-publishing.com

  www.elise-noble.com

  To the lovely folks of Southwinds Coffee, for providing plenty of inspiration for this book.

  CHAPTER 1

  RAIN SOAKED MY hair as I half walked, half ran from the Tube station to the church hall. Mental note: next week, bring trainers and don’t wear a pencil skirt. Puddles and LK Bennett heels didn’t make good playmates.

  I glanced at my watch. Five minutes late, but it was a miracle I’d made it at all. Milton Berkeley, head partner at the law firm of Berkeley, Rogers and Smyth, where I’d worked since graduating from Oxford University, didn’t take too kindly to me leaving the office at seven thirty every Thursday, never mind the other sixty hours I always worked over the week.

  I could still hear his nasal voice echoing in my head. “Leaving early again, Catherine?”

  But just over seven months ago, on a chilly New Year’s Eve, I’d promised myself that I’d take one evening a week to do something other than work. Just one. A hundred and twenty minutes to spend as I pleased.

  Full of enthusiasm and Christmas pudding, I’d signed up for an aerobics class to start with, but the rows of perfectly coordinated, Lycra-clad ladies had looked at me with such disdain I’d shed tears when I’d got home. Yes, I knew I needed to lose a few pounds, but having hips was hardly a crime, was it? Anyway, on week four, when I stopped at the all-night convenience store to buy a chocolate bar to cheer myself up on the way back to my flat, I’d spotted a flyer on the counter.

  Art classes.

  I’d always enjoyed art at school. When I was a child, I’d wanted to be a painter, although my mother had been less than enthusiastic about the masterpiece I’d created on the living room wall when the nanny fell asleep on the sofa. And my father? When the time came for me to go to university, he decreed that I should study for a “proper” career if I wanted his help with tuition fees.

  So…art. The next morning, I’d shoved all my designer workout gear to the back of my wardrobe and bought myself a whole selection of pens, pencils, paper, and paint on the internet before I went to the office.

  Fast forward to July, and holding a brush to canvas rather than a Biro to a legal pad for two hours each week was the only thing that kept me going. Thursday evenings had become my lifeline.

  Tonight, water dripped off me as I pushed through the double doors and stumbled over to the only empty seat in the room. Why were there so many people here? Usually, the class was half-empty, only five or six students, but today there were eleven others. I scanned the room and realised there was actually one more vacant seat—a solitary stool sat in the centre of a raised dais, and that was where many of my fellow attendees were focusing.

  “Never heard of an umbrella?” Marie whispered as I collapsed onto the chair she’d saved for me. Another benefit of art classes—I’d made a friend, my only one outside of work.

  “I forgot it, and there were no cabs. Are we supposed to be drawing the stool?”

  “You missed the announcement last week. We’re doing five sessions of life drawing.”

  Ah yes, last week. Mr. Berkeley had caught me as I was leaving and insisted I spend two hours going over the strategy for his court appearance the next day. It was the first time I’d skipped an art class, and when I got home, I’d drunk half a bottle of red wine while I threw darts at a photo of the grumpy old coot to bolster my spirits. The dartboard had been an impulse purchase from eBay one lunchtime, or as I preferred to call it, an investment in my sanity.

  “So, where’s the model?” I asked Marie.

  “Delores went to help him get ready.”

  Him? At school, we’d drawn a woman, one who looked like she’d rather have been anywhere but posing for a class of sixth-form students, and I’d captured the scowl on her face perfectly if I said so myself. But Delores, our teacher, had picked a man? Hmm, I liked her more and more. After all, since Mr. Berkeley banned us from having desktop calendars featuring shirtless models, I rarely got the chance to admire the male physique, and my working hours didn’t give me time to date.

  Okay, so if I was honest, the idea of actually dating again terrified me.

  My last attempt ended in failure over a year ago, when the accountant I’d been seeing for eight months sent me a text message saying I was too boring and he thought we should see other people. Boring? Coming from a man who collected antique calculators, that really, really stung, but the internet came to the rescue once again with express delivery of a Rampant Rabbit and an economy-sized box of chocolate caramels.

  “Him?” I muttered out loud, and Marie grinned.

  “Why do you think there are so many people here tonight? Last year, Delores came up with an off-duty fireman. Week one, he posed in his uniform, and week two, he whipped everything off. We almost had to call his friends at the station to come and hose us down.”

  I fished my sketchbook out of my bag, cursing under my breath at the damp edges. At least I hadn’t worn mascara today, or I’d have had that mess to contend with as well. I was just getting my pencils out when Delores swished in. Today’s muumuu was sparkly green, and it matched her eyeshadow perfectly. An older lady, she exuded the sort of confidence I’d only ever dreamed of. Even now, seven years into my legal career, I still felt sick every time I stepped through the doors of a courtroom.

  “Ladies and gentleman.” Delores glanced over at Miguel, the sole male in the room. “We’ve got a treat tonight. The lovely Joe is going to model for us.”

  She beckoned to someone behind us, and jaws dropped as Joe ambled to the front of the class, wearing only a sheet around his waist. He perched on the stool while Delores arranged the fabr
ic to cover the good bits, and then he followed her directions to, “Lean forward a bit. Move your hand.”

  Beside me, Marie’s pencil rolled out of her fingers and under Miguel’s chair, and it took him a second or two to snap his eyes away from Joe and retrieve it for her.

  Finally happy with Joe’s pose, Delores clapped her hands. “This evening, we’re going to practise our sketching. Joe’s going to move every twenty minutes, which will give you the chance to explore various positions.”

  From the way the other girls were salivating, I knew exactly which positions they wanted to explore. Even Marie, who had a boyfriend. I reached over and tapped her pad.

  “We’re supposed to be drawing.”

  “I’m committing his muscles to memory before I start. Wonder what would happen if I visited the ladies’ room and accidentally tripped over that sheet?”

  With Marie, I could never quite tell if she was serious. This was the woman who’d once scrambled over a screaming crowd to clamber on stage with Justin Timberlake and managed to squeeze his ass before security hauled her away. I knew because she showed me the video on her phone. Loosening Joe’s sheet would be nothing for Marie.

  A low hum of chatter started as I measured out rough proportions and studied Joe’s limbs. How long did he spend in the gym to get those thigh muscles? Despite what I’d said to Marie, it was a minute or two before I put pencil to paper myself. Doing justice to the man who’d stepped right out of my dirtiest daydreams suddenly became the most important thing in my life. My fingers shook a little as I sketched the outline of his body and began filling in the details of his face. The strong nose. The little smile that played across his lips as he stared at the wall to the side of me. What was he thinking about? The harsh lighting in the hall played off the planes of his face as he moved an inch.

  It seemed like no time at all had passed before Delores posed him again, only this time he was looking straight at me. For a second, our gazes locked, his blue eyes on my brown ones, and my heart raced, threatening to hammer its way out of my ribcage. Was it possible to have a lust-induced heart attack? Visions of me getting carted off in an ambulance flashed through my mind, but still I couldn’t tear my eyes away. In the end, it was Joe who broke the connection, moving those grey-flecked irises higher so he was looking over my head.

  “That man’s gonna set my lady bits on fire,” Marie muttered.

  “What about Andy? You know, your dearly beloved?” At least for the past six weeks.

  “I adore Andy, of course I do, but no woman with a pulse could sit here with dry knickers.”

  Wasn’t that the truth? I shifted uncomfortably on my chair, all too aware of my own damp patch.

  “Come on, tell me that’s true,” Marie prodded.

  “Some of us have self-control,” I hissed, then immediately wished I’d kept my voice down, because Joe’s eyes lowered to meet mine again. This time, Delores saved me as she peered over my shoulders and pointed at Joe’s pencilled waist.

  “You’ve got your proportions slightly wrong there. His torso needs to be longer.” She pointed in his direction, and I was forced to count his abs. “See?”

  “Yes, I see.” Eight-pack, not six-pack.

  “I’ll move Joe in a moment, and you can have another go.”

  Almost halfway through the class, and the thought of walking out and never seeing Joe again brought me out in a cold sweat. Not that I was anywhere near his league—Joe was Olympic gold, while I was more last-in-the-egg-and-spoon-race—but the chance to openly and legitimately admire someone that gorgeous didn’t come along often.

  “Are we using the same model for all the life drawing classes?” I asked.

  Delores didn’t bother to hide her smile. “Ooh, yes. Much better for your development that way, don’t you think?”

  “Definitely.”

  Beside me, Marie was grinning too as Delores headed for the dais.

  “Four more weeks of that,” Marie said. “These art classes are worth every penny.”

  Miguel overheard her and licked his lips. “I’d pay double.”

  “Triple if he took the sheet away.”

  “Guys, you can’t keep talking about him like he’s a piece of meat,” I told them. “He’s only here to model.”

  “So you’re telling me you wouldn’t…you know…?”

  “I’m focused on my career. I don’t have time to date.”

  “Who said anything about dating? A good shag might stop you from being so uptight.”

  “I’m not uptight,” I snapped.

  Marie giggled. “Whatever you say.”

  Glancing across the room, I caught a slim girl with blonde hair raising her phone to take a quick photo of Joe while he wasn’t looking, and I wished I were brave enough to do the same thing. Knowing my luck, he’d catch me just as I clicked the shutter, which would necessitate dying of embarrassment and thus not being able to return to class for the next month. Maybe on week five…

  “Don’t forget to draw, ladies,” Delores said. “And you, Miguel.”

  Ah yes, the drawing. I picked up my pencil again, thankful that this time Joe was facing away from me, and carried on with my mission to commit every part of him to both memory and paper before the end of his sessions. The way a lock of his tousled blond hair fell over his forehead. His square jaw, clean-shaven, with that little cleft in his chin crying out to be licked. Stop it, Cate! But I couldn’t. I spent more time looking than drawing, but I stayed away from his eyes. Those eyes were dangerous to a girl’s heart. I shifted my gaze to his body instead and allowed myself to drink in the detail of the tattoo on his upper arm. A skull with a snake twined through its empty eye sockets, a little creepy, but it gave Joe an edge that only made him sexier. As did the faint scar on his thigh, a starburst of pale flesh. How had he got that?

  His lips quirked up for a second, as did my pulse rate. What was going through his mind? The bunch of horny women drooling over him? Or something more mundane, like pizza or football?

  The final hour passed all too quickly, and it was time to pack up.

  “Good thing I’m getting my hair done before next week,” Marie said.

  “Andy?” I reminded her again.

  “What’s wrong with a girl wanting to look her best?”

  “Or a guy,” Miguel chipped in. “You never know, he might be on the other team.”

  A groan escaped my lips before I could help myself, and Marie turned to face me.

  “I knew it! You are interested.”

  “Not at all. I merely remembered I’d forgotten to book myself in for a trim. It’s been on my to-do list for weeks.”

  I wasn’t entirely lying. It was just that getting my hair cut usually rated somewhere near the bottom of my list of priorities. At work, I could fasten it back in a bun and nobody knew the difference.

  Marie and Miguel exchanged knowing smiles, and Marie nodded.

  “Sure, I believe you.”

  I finished shoving my pencils into my bag, looking up in time to catch one last glimpse of Joe as he walked out to get dressed. The next six days and twenty-two hours would be the slowest of my life.

  CHAPTER 2

  “CATHERINE, WHAT ARE you doing over there? I needed those papers twenty minutes ago.”

  Crappity crap. What was I doing? Oh, that’s right, staring at all those little words on my computer screen but only seeing Joe’s face. I’d figured the whole Joe-fantasy thing was safe enough, seeing as nobody else could see what was running through my grubby mind, but now I realised I’d have to be more careful.

  “Two minutes, Mr. Berkeley. I’ll just print them out.”

  Oh, the joys of being a lawyer. When I’d told my father I’d be studying law at Oxford, he’d been over the moon, and for five long years he’d expected me to follow in his footsteps as a barrister. I tried, really I did, and I even defended a couple of cases once I’d passed
the bar exam, but the whole arguing-in-front-of-people thing brought me out in hives. Literally. Big red blotches, and the doctor said it was due to stress. I’d switched to property law instead, much to my family’s disappointment, which meant I got the joys of dealing with overhanging trees and boundary disputes, but at least I rarely needed to stand before a judge.

  I quickly read over the letter on screen one more time. Our client was arguing with his next-door neighbour about the position of her new fence. Neither side would back down over what amounted to four inches of scrubby grass. Four inches! Even my ex, Mr. Calculator, had a longer dick than that—barely—and from the look of the photos, neither of the parties involved liked gardening, anyway. But the client was paying our fees, so who was I to question it?

  Mr. Berkeley took the papers with a scowl and I backed out of his office, raising an eyebrow at his PA. What put him in such a happy mood this Friday?

  “He forgot his wife’s birthday,” she whispered. “Mrs. B yelled at him so loud one of the neighbours called the police.”

  “Ouch.”

  “She’s making him take her away for the weekend, which means he’s had to cancel his golf game and three meetings this afternoon.”

  “Does that mean we don’t need to go through the Walker files tomorrow?”

  She grimaced apologetically. “Uh, it means you need to go through the Walker files tomorrow.”

  Terrific. “It’s not like I wanted Saturday off, anyway.”

  If Mr. Berkeley was leaving early and expected me to do his work, then I was damn well doing it at home rather than in the office. And maybe, just maybe, I could stop off and get my hair cut on my way home. Not because I’d be seeing Joe again in less than a week. Not in the slightest. Okay, perhaps there was a tiny part that felt I should make the effort. After all, I got to look at his delicious body for two whole hours, so the least I could do was get rid of my split ends. And possibly wear make-up. And lose ten pounds. Or thirty.