I took another bite of steak. Too rare, but I wasn’t about to complain. Then I felt it: a light pressure against my toe, slow and deliberate, sliding up to my ankle.
Not a casual brush. Intentional.
I swallowed and glanced up.
Across from me sat Frank, charming as ever, laughing at something, and Matt, cocky tonight, fresh off his MOMA exhibition. Both were close enough to reach me under the long white tablecloth.
I set my fork down carefully. Someone was playing a game. And I wasn’t going to lose.
This was Mr. Dodson's yearly artists' showcase dinner at his house. A mansion, really, with turrets and stone that made you think of castles.
He was the type of billionaire the world needed more of, the one who donated to scientific research and quietly funded artists to pursue their work without fear of starvation. Artists like me, although lately, I felt like I was wearing the title loosely.
The only way I could describe him was as a skinny Santa. He stood in the open doorway wearing a dark velvet green suit with black trim, his jolly eyes crinkling into half-moons as he smiled warmly.
It was his ego-less joy for our art that made us love him. He funded six of us artists to create freely, asking only that we attend these yearly dinners and share our progress.
"Ah, Ms. Brown. Lovely to see you!" he said, motioning me inside with a genial sweep of his arm.
I looked past him to see Zara, Jude, and Frank already in a semi-circle with cocktails in hand.
"Here's our little globetrotter!" Frank winked and lifted a glass in greeting. I made my way over, accepting one from a passing server.
Zara wore a sleek, floor-length silk gown, her smooth, elegant back fully exposed. She caught me looking and arched an eyebrow, a small smile playing on her lips. I looked away, suddenly self-conscious. She was so beautiful it was hard not to stare.
"Well, it seems Matt and Will are running late. Let's go ahead into the library," Mr. Dodson said, gesturing to the tall wooden double doors that opened to a massive room lined with floor-to-ceiling books and a roaring fireplace.
Mr. Dodson had already displayed our pieces around the room like a proud dad. My gaze landed first on Matt's sculpture, the one that earned him a coveted spot among MOMA's chosen.
I blinked away quickly, turning to focus on Frank's painting on the far wall. A massive streak of yellow slashed across a cerulean blue semi-circle. I still didn't get his work, but LA collectors did. And paid handsomely for squiggles.
And next to Frank's was mine. A photo of a rusted bus outside a forgotten Chilean town. I’d painted the outline of a child in the window: faceless, fading, but still watching. It looked almost childish now, like I’d shown up sticky with Elmer’s glue and dried macaroni while everyone else sipped from crystal glasses and laughed.
"You should have done more."
I turned, startled. It was Will. Quiet as ever. Suddenly behind me. He studied the piece, his blue eyes fixed, head tilted slightly, as if puzzling something out.
"You don’t seem to have any trouble popping out those memes," I shot back, harsher than I meant to. Will had blown up this past year, turning viral internet memes into baroque-style paintings and amassing a massive following.
His studying gaze shifted to me, and guilt pricked at my pettiness. He didn't seem offended, just chuckled, dimples flashing.
"Gotta give the masses what they demand,” he said, easy and good-natured.
I smiled and shook my head in feigned exasperation, relieved by how effortlessly kind he was. He took a breath to say something—
but the dinner bell cut through before he could.
We gathered in the dining room. It was intimate, a quiet contrast to the sprawling library.
I sat at the long table with Zara to my right, Jude to my left, and Frank across from me. Mr. Dodson presided at the head, Will on his right.
"Hey, Brown. You still dating that Midwestern pretty boy?" Frank asked as the canapés landed in front of us.
Of course he knew. Frank practically lived in the comment section of my measly 7k-follower page. My posts were usually crickets, except for his kissy face emojis and the occasional thoughtful line from a fan named @eyeofbaptiste.
"Not anymore," I said simply, stabbing an asparagus. My nostrils flared.
"Good," he grinned.
Jesus—I had barely taken my first bite, and the sharks were already circling.
I wanted to fling my knife at that charming, freckled face—just to watch that perfectly combed red hair fly out of place as he ducked for cover.
"Now, now. Let's not give Ms. Brown any trouble. She has far more important things to focus on, like her superb photography," Mr. Dodson chided convivially, smiling warmly at me. "I’ve so enjoyed your latest work."
"Evie's still your favorite, I see," Matt said as he strolled in with a shit-eating grin.
Apparently, being the golden boy of the art world came with late privileges. At least he finally shaved off that godawful blond mustache he’d been inexplicably proud of at our last dinner.
"How's it going, Brown?” He dropped into the seat beside Frank, then looked across at me. “Still snapping those travel photos while the rest of us get commissioned?”
Asshole.
My cheeks burned. I felt every pair of eyes land on me. The truth I’d been trying not to name settled between us, quiet and heavy.
I felt like the kid sister again: adored by the parent, resented by the siblings, and barely tolerated at the table.
"Congrats on the MOMA exhibit," Jude said while he chewed on a buttered roll. We all mumbled our congratulations.
Matt jerked his head in acknowledgment and took a swig of wine.
"To us, you'll always be that brown-nosing newbie who thought free booze would fill a gallery," Will said coolly.
Frank snorted into his glass, then coughed quickly.
Matt narrowed his eyes but continued, "Mr. Dodson, I was looking forward to seeing you at my opening."
“Yes, well, it has been a busy summer. Oh, this aged steak—quite the treat,” Mr. Dodson said lightly as the next course was set before us. "Flown in from Australia, courtesy of a dear friend."
The first bite of steak was too rare. I was still deciding whether Matt’s smugness had peaked or if he had more veiled insults to toss my way—when I felt it.
A light pressure against my toe, slow and deliberate, sliding up toward my ankle.
Not a casual brush. Intentional.
I swallowed and glanced up. Across from me: Frank, laughing with Mr. Dodson. Matt, leaning back with a satisfied grin. Both close enough to reach me under the white tablecloth.
I set my fork down carefully and pulled my leg back, a clear message: not interested.
But the foot returned almost immediately, higher this time, sliding up my shin slowly.
As the foot reached my knee, I held my breath. There was no way it’d—Oop.
We were past teasing. It had slid to the inside of my thigh.
My gaze flicked back and forth between Frank and Matt. Matt was now speaking over Will to Mr. Dodson, who was nodding politely as he chewed. Frank was staring at a piece of steak speared on his fork, utterly fascinated, or pretending to be.
The table suddenly felt too narrow, too easy for a long leg to reach this far. I could have stopped it. But some part of me wanted to know.
I was rethinking my dress choice as the foot slipped beneath the hem. I kept my breathing even. I wouldn't give him the satisfaction.
It reached the edge of my panties and paused. So did my breath.
My eyes locked on both Frank and Matt, scanning for signs. They were chatting, casual as ever.
Then—
A sudden, firm press. Right there.
I gasped.
The whole table turned. The pressure disappeared as quickly as it had come. The foot retreated. Or maybe just shifted. I couldn’t be sure.
Jude and Frank froze mid-conversation. Will looked at me, concerned. Zara’s hazel eyes flicked to me, quiet and sharp. Matt had a small smirk, too smug for my liking.
That fucker. He was trying to make me look like a fool.
"Is everything alright, Ms. Brown?" Mr. Dodson asked.
My cheeks flushed.
"Y-yes. This dish is just… so delicious," I stammered. "Please tell your friend the steak is excellent."
"Always so thoughtful," Mr. Dodson beamed.
Matt’s expression flickered, just briefly. Resentment?
Flustered, I excused myself to the bathroom.
Mr. Dodson had designed the guest bathroom with lavish stalls, leftover decadence from the legendary parties he used to throw.
I stepped out of one to find Zara at the gold-gilded mirror, applying lipstick. Her eyes caught mine in the reflection.
"You let the boys toy with you too much," she said, not pausing the lipstick.
I froze.
How the hell did she know what Matt's foot was doing under the table?
I knew she was always watching and observing, but I didn't realize she had x-ray vision.
"They goad you. Frank, too. He looks harmless, but he flirts to see if you'll let him waste your time."
She straightened and turned to me, lipstick still armed. She walked over slowly, gracefully and cat-like.
"You think you don't belong here," she said, now close enough that I could see the gold flecks in her eyes, her perfume warm with a hint of spice. She lightly patted my lips with her soft pink-nude lipstick.
"Don't let them know that."
She sheathed the tube, turned, and walked out. Her heels clacking sharply on the marble floor.
I took a moment to gather myself before following her out.
As I approached the table, something caught my eye—
a small folded slip of paper resting on my chair.
I would’ve missed it if I hadn’t looked down to avoid Matt’s critical stare. I slid into my seat and opened it just below the tablecloth.
You deserve more. Meet me at the back stairwell.
My eyes drifted up to meet Frank’s. He gave me a small, curious smile. Would he write this? Had he noticed what Matt was doing under the table?
Or maybe he was in on it.
Matt stood and walked to the foyer, returning with a medium-sized canvas. He held it up.
"This is a piece I made especially for you, Mr. Dodson," he said, proudly. "My thanks for all your years of support."
Dodson looked delighted. “This is fantastic.” He studied the piece, eyes alight. I felt a surge of affection for him then. He had the heart of an artist, not the hands.
But then I felt it again. That damn foot was back on my shin, light and deliberate.
The fuck.
I looked sharply at Frank. He just sipped his wine, expression smooth, eyes on Mr. Dodson and Matt. The foot paused. It retreated an inch, testing.
Enough.
Public accolades be damned. I had every goddamn right to a seat at this table.
As Matt took his seat, the foot returned, now on my knee, sliding its familiar path up towards my thigh like nothing had happened.
I kicked. Hard. My toes landed squarely in the soft underside of their leg.
Just my luck. Bad timing.
Frank burst out laughing at something Will said, just as Matt let out a sneeze.
I closed my eyes. Took a deep breath. My jaw was tight. The anger was starting to show.
"Shall we take a short break and retire to the music room? I believe a performance is in order," Mr. Dodson said, gesturing to Jude, the sole musician in our circle.
We all stood in unison. As the group drifted off, I lingered in the dining room, circling the mahogany table. I checked where Matt and Frank had been seated, trying to calculate angles. Who had the better reach?
Honestly, both.
Both could’ve easily reached me. I sighed and slipped out into the candle-lit hallway.
Toward the back of the house, I found the narrow, spiraling stairwell I’d noticed earlier, walled on both sides, half-concealed, possibly leading to the private quarters. Only the lower half of the stairs was lit by the hallway’s ambient glow.
The rest was swallowed in shadow… where someone waited.
I tried to make out if it was Frank or Matt.
I crept up one step. Then another. If he tried to murder me, surely someone would hear me scream. Right?
The figure shifted, then descended toward me. As he stepped into the light, it rose over him slowly, revealing first his legs, then his torso, then his neck.
Then his face.
Will.
I blinked. My mouth hung open. "Will?" I breathed.
He smiled gently, stepping closer. "Not who you were expecting?"
I didn't answer. A singing manatee would’ve been less surprising.
"I wasn't kidding when I said you should put out more work." He stopped one step above me, lifting his hand to gently tilt my chin up to meet his gaze.
"It's mesmerizing. I've been watching for a while now." The heat from his hand traveled down my neck to my chest. I frowned.
"For a while?" I asked.
He hesitated, then: "I may have been under a pseudonym."
My mind raced. Who had shown up for my art? Consistently? Other than Frank…
"You're Eyes of Baptiste?"
He smiled but didn’t answer, closer now.
I could feel the warmth coming off him. He smelled like cedarwood, and something darker—amber, maybe. Rich. Smoky. Warm. It made my head swim. I didn’t know how I’d missed it before. My body leaned in, betraying me.
"I want to see who you are when no one is watching."
His nose brushed against mine, but he didn’t close the distance, leaving me space. That space filled: with settling confusion, recognition. Longing.
Though it was hard to focus, his words echoed. All the comments I’d read and reread from @eyesofbaptiste over the past year came flooding back.
"I keep coming back to this. Sat with this one longer than I expected."
"You have a way of finding grace where it shouldn’t be."
"Curious where you'll take this next. Keep going."
It was always Will.
The one who always left something behind, a quiet nudge to keep going until the next Mr. Dodson dinner brought us together again. The one who saw me from afar, unearthing the marrow of what I was trying to say.
Whoever was touching me under the table didn’t matter anymore. I no longer wanted to play.
I stepped up to meet him, eye to eye. He turned slightly to make space on the step, his eyes and hand never leaving my face.
As I leaned in closer, a smile tugged at my lips, watching his usually discerning deep blue eyes go soft and flutter shut.
"I'm curious where you'll take this next," I whispered against his mouth, then closed the scant distance, my lips melding with his.
His hand slid from my chin to the back of my neck, pulling me firmly against him. I parted my lips, and he answered with a low groan. His other hand came to the small of my back, holding me tight to him. My fingers tangled in his dark curls, thick and slightly unruly, giving him a roguish charm. I softened into him, yielding to his solid and steady one. Water against stone.
"Ms. Brown?" A voice called from down the hall.
We both started at the interruption, breaking the kiss. I smiled. Will let out a soft chuckle.
"We should get back," he murmured, hand still at the small of my back as he guided me down the stairs toward the music room.
They were already seated, Jude at the cello. All eyes turned as we entered.
Zara’s lips curved in a knowing smile. Matt's brows shot up. Mr. Dodson beamed, his eyes twinkling.
"Damn, Brown. Gettin’ sooomme," Frank laughed.
I thought it was just our expressions that gave us away until I glanced sideways to Will. My heart stopped.
My lipstick. The one Zara had pressed to my lips. Stained Will's mouth.
My latest piece. On full display.