Cookies for Courting

P
ACE
B
ARLOW
slathered his brush with thick acrylic paint. Swiping his hand sideways, he drew a fat crimson line across the canvas. He stepped back to examine it for a minute before doing the same thing again, intersecting the two marks. Biting his lip, he considered the large, still mostly white, space. He’d already finished his piece for the auction, but this one had pulled him out of bed and insisted he do another painting. Sometimes art was a bitchy mistress.

“I need blue.” He turned to locate his tube of cobalt paint. Scanning the pile on his side table, he groaned. He really needed to pick up his studio. He’d been in an artistic cloud for the past few days and hadn’t paid much attention to his surroundings. A hurricane could’ve hit the room and
it wouldn’t have made a difference in the overall tidiness of his
workspace.

His cell phone rang. The sound of crickets chirping distracted him from his search. He’d chosen that ringtone because it was just irritating enough to pull him out of his art. Normally, he ignored the phone, but on the off chance it could be a customer, he decided to answer it.

His checking account was becoming perilously low—again. If this kept up, he’d have to dip into his trust fund. He hated to do that. It dented his pride when he had to fall back upon the money his grandfather had left him.

Pace preferred to live a life of meaning and donate his time and interest income to various charities around town. Instead of lounging around a big house or working on his tan like his trust-fund friends.

After placing his brush and palette on a paint-spattered crate, Pace grabbed his phone from its safety zone on top of a high shelf.

Pace didn’t recognize the number but pressed to connect anyway. “Hello?”

“Is this Pace Barlow?” a woman asked in a no-nonsense voice.

Pace’s money senses tingled. “Yes.”

“I’m Joyce Smith, Marshall Hunter’s assistant. He’s asked me to find an artist to paint a mural for his niece’s bedroom. You were highly recommended by Mrs. Breverton. Would you be interested in coming in and interviewing with Mr. Hunter about the job?”

Pace cleared his throat. “I’d be happy to.”

“Would tomorrow at ten work for you? We’re trying to get this project started as soon as possible.”

“That would be fine.” Pace struggled to keep his voice steady and not screech with excitement. He loved doing murals. Mrs. Breverton had been a bitchy, demanding client, but she’d paid really well and he’d received two other jobs from her recommendations. He might not want to live off his inheritance, but he didn’t mind using his connections. A guy had to eat.

“Excellent. Don’t forget to bring your portfolio.”

“Will do.” Pace said his good-byes, then disconnected and spun in a circle, pumping his fist. “Yes!”

The day was looking up after all. His phone rang again. Pace stopped jumping around long enough to answer.

“Hello?”

“Pace, where are you? You were supposed to be here like an hour ago,” a hard Russian-accented voice demanded.

Oh crap.

He’d completely forgotten he was supposed to meet his friend at the new nightclub that had opened a few streets from his studio.

“Sandy? Sorry, man. I got involved in my painting. I’m not going to make it. I might have a job lined up, and I need to bring my portfolio to an interview tomorrow. I haven’t updated it in a few months.”

Sandlova Aliev, nephew of Boris Aliev, head of the Russian mob, made a rude, annoyed sound. “How am I going to attract the right man if you aren’t here to be bait?”

“Sandy, I might get to do a mural.” Pace couldn’t help the whine in his voice. He knew he was in the wrong, but he needed a new art project.

Sandy sighed. “Fine, but if I don’t get sex tonight I’m blaming you.”

Pace could sympathize. It had been a while since he’d had sex, but in a contest between art and fucking, art always won. “Sorry, buddy, call Frankie. He’s pretty enough to be your wingman even if I doubt you need one.”

Half of the time, Sandy made stuff up just to get Pace out of his studio. Sandy was a loyal if slightly dangerous friend.

“Fine, if you’re sure…?” Sandy let it hang, as if maybe Pace would suddenly decide to change his mind.

“I’m sure.” The club scene had begun to wear Pace down. Maybe he’d gotten too old for that sort of thing. The loud music and pulsing lights no longer got him excited. He was more likely to get a headache than get laid.

“Let’s get together Sunday and have brunch at Harold’s,” Sandy said.

“I’ll see you there at eleven.” Pace agreed. Harold’s was an overpriced restaurant with even snobbier waiters, but it overlooked the water and had the best eggs Benedict on the planet. He’d gladly pay a premium if it got him out of another night of clubbing. Hell, he’d even pay for Sandy’s breakfast and anyone else he brought along.

“I’m getting old,” he said to the empty room. “Maybe I should just get a fucking cat.”

His excitement over a possible job faded as he looked around his messy studio. Nobody would want to live with someone so involved in his inner world that he rarely stepped out to see what was going on around him.

“At least my apartment isn’t quite so bad. Probably because I’m never there.”

He lived in a studio apartment, the only place he could afford with the costs of renting his art space. Still, he kept it tidy so he wasn’t tripping over all his crap all the time. He needed to spread that neatness to his work area.

After placing a cover over his current painting, Pace cleaned up his brushes and headed home. The two-block walk along the tree-lined street always made for a good end to the day, not to mention an amazing Thai restaurant lay between the two spots.

He loved Thaitian Thai. They had the best pad Thai with chicken he’d ever eaten. His stomach grumbled, and Pace made a beeline for the restaurant door.

“Hey, Pace,” Kiet, the owner, called out. Kiet had started the place in his early twenties with some money from his parents. Now in his midthirties, he had made a success out of his takeout business. Pace usually called ahead, but he’d forgotten in his rush to get home and update his portfolio.

The other reason Pace came to Kiet’s place was because of Pace’s deal with Kiet. In exchange for painting a mural for the restaurant, he got free meals.

“Hey, Kiet. I’m starving. Please say there isn’t a long wait.” Pace pressed his hands together in a pleading motion.

Kiet laughed. “Not for you. Have to feed my starving artist. The usual?”

“Yes, please.” Pace settled on one of the padded seats along the walls.

“It’ll be about fifteen minutes,” Kiet said.

“That’s fine.” It would take him longer to whip something up at home, assuming he had groceries.

Kiet grabbed a pen and wrote some things on a pad of paper before vanishing through the door behind him, which led to the kitchen.

A moment later, Kiet returned.

“Did I tell you? My uncle is very pleased with the mural you painted in his restaurant. I told him to give your card to anyone who asks.”

Pace smiled. Kiet’s uncle gave him the same trade as Kiet. Soon he would be able to travel around the neighborhood and never have to buy another meal again. “Thanks. I could use the business. I have a lead on a new job, but I’m always looking to have another one lined up, especially if this one doesn’t pan out.”

“Doing what?” Kiet found Pace’s career as an artist a constant source of entertainment. He never understood why Pace didn’t want to sit back and live off his inherited money. Kiet had told Pace more than once that his life goal was to get rich and do nothing but sit on the beach and drool over women in bikinis.

“A client wants a mural for his niece.”

“If you need a recommendation, have him call us. We will make sure you get the job.”

Pace laughed. He loved his friends. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

They exchanged small talk for a bit until one of Kiet’s servers brought out a white takeout box. Kiet shoved it into a small plastic bag, followed by some cookies.

“Those aren’t exactly Thai,” Pace said, pointing at the cookies.

Kiet rolled his eyes. “I discontinued them for a bit, but I couldn’t stand all the customers complaining. If it comes with rice or noodles, Americans want a fortune cookie.”

Pace accepted the bag Kiet held out. “We are a weird culture.”

“I agree. Have a good night.”

“Thanks.”

Pace waved to Kiet on his way out the door and headed home, eager to get his portfolio set up.

He jogged up the short flight of stairs to his studio, then unlocked the door. After he entered and relocked the door behind him, he walked over to his small dining table and set down his food. He popped open the Styrofoam top to reveal long strips of chicken and spicy noodles lying in their white bedding. The aroma caused his mouth to water like a puppy spotting a juicy steak. After plopping his ass down on a wooden dining chair, Pace snatched up the chopsticks and snapped them apart.

“Best deal I ever made.”

W
AITING
FOR
the elevator, Marshall Hunter brushed at his sleeve. String seemed to follow him around. Ever since his niece had moved into his condo: lint, hair ribbons, and odd bits of string were all over the place, multiplying like rabbits during breeding season.

Although parking in the garage was a nice perk of owning the company, having to wait for the elevator to cycle through ten floors before he reached his office got tiring every morning. Still, he refused to be one of those people who insisted on having his own executive elevator. His time wasn’t any more valuable than his employees’. Besides, it was good for employee morale to see the owner having to deal with daily irritations like everyone else.

He turned his attention to his phone while he stood there, hoping to decipher the e-mail his assistant sent him.

“Excuse me, sorry.”

Marshall scooted back to make room for a slim blond wearing a pair of dark jeans and a bright red T-shirt. He blinked at the color even though it was probably too late and had already burned onto his retinas.

The newcomer’s head came to Marshall’s shoulder, and he clutched a black binder. A smudge of bright blue dotted his right cheek, as if trying to call attention to the man’s natural beauty.

“You have a bit of paint on your face,” Marshall said.

The blond turned his head and gave Marshall the jolt of seeing his entire face. Damn, the man skipped handsome and went directly to breathtaking.

One golden eyebrow tilted up above a set of warm brown eyes. “I’m sorry?”

“Your cheek.” Marshall motioned to his own face to indicate placement. “You have some blue on it.”

“Crap,” the angel said. He tried to peer above the other occupants in the elevator to see his reflection on the doors, but he wasn’t tall enough.

“Here, let me.” Marshall pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the gorgeous man’s face. It took a bit of rubbing, but after a minute or two, the paint came off, leaving a bit of red skin behind. “Sorry if I hurt you.”

“No, it’s fine. Thanks. I appreciate it. It was hard enough to find something to wear without stains.”

The man’s good-natured acceptance of being paint splattered charmed Marshall much more than his spotless date the other night. The tidy stockbroker he’d gone out with had spent the entire time pumping Marshall for information about his investment portfolio and giving him unneeded advice. Marshall owned an investment company; he didn’t need financial tips. Maybe the guy thought it would make them appear more compatible. All it did for Marshall was make him end the evening early.

Marshall had a feeling any date with the man beside him would end up dirty, messy, and thoroughly entertaining. His cock began to harden. The elevator bell dinged and several people got off, making it possible for the artist to step farther away. Marshall clamped his lips together to hold back his instinctive protest over the increased distance between them.

He struggled for something to say. “What is your meeting for?”

“Oh, I’ve been asked to bring my portfolio. They need someone to do a mural for a girl’s room. I’m not sure why we’re meeting here.” The man shrugged as if the entire location was of no matter.

Marshall doubted much bothered the artist, who had a calm bohemian feel to him. A few beads were intertwined with a small braid on the right side of his hair, and he wore Birkenstocks on his feet with a bright silver ring on the second toe of his left foot. Marshall had to suppress an odd urge to strip the beautiful man and search for tattoos. He had a feeling he’d find more than one.

“You’re meeting here because I don’t have time to go home and then get back again before my next meeting.”

The artist’s eyes went wide. “You’re Mr. Hunter?”

“Yes, and you are?” He had three artists to interview, and he didn’t know which name belonged to this beautiful man.

“Pace Barlow.”

The artist’s smile, fast and blinding, sent a jolt of electricity through Marshall’s body and settled in his cock. Good thing he wore a long suit jacket and carried a suitcase to hide his erection. He’d never been attracted so quickly to a complete stranger. Most of his dates took a predictable path of dinner, a play, concert, or some other event, then possibly sex. He rarely took someone out twice. Relationships weren’t worth the amount of effort required to pull them off successfully.