Christina wasn’t sure what she felt about any of this. She knew she wasn’t being her usual self, but she was also too distracted to be able to work and maintain her composure. She just wanted to focus on work, but it didn’t look like it wasn't going to work that way. All she could think about was last night, and what a mistake it’d been. The regret had slammed into her the moment she woke up.

Matty frustrated her to no end. He was such an arrogant asshole. It was hot in the bedroom, but definitely not during the day. And then he’d do things like bring her a towel, and call up a tailor at a moment’s notice, just in case her dress didn’t fit perfectly. Who the hell did that? Like she would allow him to pay a fortune just to have her dress altered for a day. It was ridiculous, and wasteful. And at the same time, she couldn’t help but swoon a little at how sweet it was. And he’d done it just for her. She cringed at her feelings.

Her whole life she’d always been moving towards goals, goals, goals. But last night had been unrestrained, completely exposed, mind-altering orgasmic sex. And she wasn't sure she liked it. Not the actual sex. Nothing had been better than that. But what had transformed inside her. She didn’t know that side of her existed. She’d begged Matty for his cock for crying out loud. Her face flushed with pink hues at the thought. She wasn't even sure how she’d managed to do it. She’d never begged for anything in her life. Had she been completely drunk, she’d have said she was coerced. It was that out of character for her. But she was practically sober by the time they’d returned from dinner, and she definitely remembered doing it, agreeing to do it, and enjoying it.

She just couldn’t understand why.

She liked Matty. She liked him a lot. But if this was who he was, then how could she commit to anything more than liking him? How could she end up in his bed, letting him dominate and own her, if he would never commit? And even if he wanted to, how would that work out? He’d be tired of her within a month, if not less. Men like him enjoyed a different woman for every occasion. She had no intention of ending up in some sort of lost baggage relationship where nobody wanted to come back for her. She wanted commitment out of a man, or nothing.

And it was too late. She’d already soiled a professional relationship. And now she wanted some kind of commitment from him. Commitment she would never get.

Her own commitment was a difficult question too. She knew she needed to either reveal herself to him, in more ways than just physical, or she needed to keep up her professional attitude as though they hadn’t fucked like wild animals. Neither of those options felt right.

Exposing herself, physically and emotionally, couldn’t happen. He wasn’t her boyfriend. She couldn’t let a man that was practically a stranger inside. Couldn’t allow him beyond the guarded walls she’d carefully built. But she already had, and had learned something new about herself.

How could she go back and pretend to be a stern, cold professional when he’d already seen her true self? She was a fraud, wearing a mask when he knew who she was.

She studied the stack of papers in front of her and damn near wanted to break down. But she couldn’t. She had a job to do.

There was a reason that she’d drawn a line between the personal and the professional. A reason beyond wanting to turn down creeps and perverts. Because even when she actually liked a man, relationships ruined business deals. The whole situation was fucked up, complicated. She didn’t know who to be and she’d lost all control. She wanted to go back to how she was before, but that was probably what had attracted him to her in the first place.

Christina had always taken pride in being mature beyond her years, a true professional. And now, for the first time since she was sixteen years old, she felt small, naïve, and like an idiot.

She convinced herself there was no way he’d take her seriously after this. It was time to end their business relationship. It was the only way she could get her dignity back and recover from the shame.

She stood and stretched, then walked into the hallway. Her eyebrows rose in confusion at how empty it was. Usually, no matter what time of the day, servants always rushed around, cleaning or hurrying off somewhere. But now, when it would actually be convenient to see an employee, there was nobody there.

She gritted her teeth, determined.

Turning to one of the little screens on the wall, she wondered whether it was worth trying to get in contact with anyone. She could just walk out and pretend it never happened. But Christina knew she couldn’t do that. Her mind wouldn’t let her. She was a professional, and there was an adult way to handle this situation.

“Mia, call Mr. Spencer.”

“Requesting clearance to talk to Mr. Spencer.” Mia paused. “Clearance not granted.”

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me?” Mia was indeed useless. She inhaled a deep breath.

“Mia, call Mr. Johannes.”

“Mr. Johannes is currently busy and is deflecting calls. Requesting password to override deflection?”

“Piece of shit.” She glared at the wall. “Never mind.”

“Playing 'Nevermind' by Leonard Cohen.” Mia’s voice faded to music.

Christina’s face twisted and she clenched her palms. “Ugh.” She felt like banging her head against a brick wall as the music increased in volume. She decided to walk up and down the giant house looking for Mr. Spencer, or a member of the staff.

She stepped out into the hallway.

“Mr. Spencer?” She peered down the empty hallway. Her voice echoed back at her. She walked toward the East of the house, where she knew that he’d spent a lot of his time the previous day. Maybe he would be there again.

As she walked along, Mia tracked her with motion detectors and played the song wherever she went. She whirled around in frustration. This was fucking ridiculous. How had he not ripped her damn cables out? Didn’t it drive him insane? Or maybe it did. Maybe he was at his wit’s end but dealt with it to keep up impressions.

As she walked along, she heard a different song come from a small hallway to her left. Something techno and high-pitched. It wasn’t all that great, but it overrode Leonard Cohen, so that was something. The song faded, and as Christina stepped into the hallway, it abruptly stopped. The upbeat digital guitar continued. It had to be Mr. Spencer's own music.

Of course his music would be more important than everyone else’s. But that told her he was nearby. The hallway had no doors to either side of it. It was just a narrow path leading to a single, plain white door. She stomped toward it and shoved it open with a forceful push. She froze at the sight, confused, wondering if she’d walked into another universe.

The room was insane. It was an amazing contrast from the rest of his house. It was ridiculously chaotic and dirty, and damn near caused her face to twitch. At the same time, it was gorgeous. There were large sheets, painted canvasses, and sculptures littered around. So many at the front of the room that she could barely see past them. What was more, they were filthy, coated with dust and speckled with paint. The marble floor had a single clear path, and then streaks of paint and piles of dust and reddish mud covered the rest of the place. It stretched almost to the edges, except for a few footprints that’d broken through the carpet of neglect.

It smelled like some sort of warehouse.

But it was also the most beautiful room in the entire building.

The tall ceiling looked like the roof of a greenhouse. It was at least fifteen feet tall, and the frosted glass was shaped into pyramid-like domes. It allowed natural light to penetrate every corner of the room. It felt brighter, bigger, and warmer than anywhere else in the house, since it wasn’t Mia projecting some ridiculous fake sun.

Hundreds of paintings were strewn along the walls, all framed and carefully positioned. The display reached around eight feet high. Each one was a masterpiece. Like much of the rest of Mr. Spencer's house, the paintings depicted naked bodies and cars, but they were so much finer, and much more delicate. There was love and emotion infused into every piece. Christina had never had an eye for art, but she knew beauty when she saw it. The naked women were graceful and demure, the men modest and stern. The cars highlighted the engineering, structure, and power, rather than cost and status. It all formed a celebration of humanity, rather than sexuality or extravagance.

The sculptures that were uncovered were incredible too. The shapes were somewhat exaggerated, almost deformed, twisted to hide their joints and angles, yet still distinctly human. They were like soft dolls, intricately detailed to contain every human feature, but not quite real. And even so, their texture and shape were so stunning they almost seemed alive. She had to force herself not to pull the sheets off the others and have a look at them.

And the strange combination of chalky white and gray dust, red streaks of mud, and little drops of colorful paint made the floor look like abstract art. It was a disgusting mess, but somehow, she couldn’t bring herself to hate it. It was an organic mess—but, looked like it belonged. She couldn’t put a finger on it. It was almost like seeing sand in the desert or snow on a mountain. Dirty and unorganized, but exactly as it should be. It all just, worked.

Christina had never appreciated the arts. It wasn’t how she was wired. But even someone as uncreative as herself could appreciate this in the middle of such a plain, sterile building.

She walked through and noticed something else—they were all unfinished works. Some of the paintings were completed, and some of the sculptures nearer the door were finished too. But most of what she saw was a work in progress.

One particular piece caught her eye. A giant canvas, at least four by seven feet. It depicted a naked blue woman. She had the same softness, the same lack of human bone structure, as the sculptures. She was on a bed of emerald-green and ruby-red pillows, with her legs spread invitingly. But it wasn’t just sexual. It was erotic. Everything was on display, but Christina could somehow see the humanity of her. It was as though by making the models less physically human, the artist had highlighted their emotional and mental features.

Someone hummed along to music and Christina spun around, startled. Half-hidden behind a covered sculpture, she noticed someone dancing to the music as he stirred a paint pot. It was Mr. Spencer.

He stood in front of a canvas and struck broad lines onto it in gray paint. The paint wasn’t completely mixed, and every line was a unique blend of gray and white streaks. The only other colors on the work were red and blue, but Christina could already see the figure of a woman taking shape. There was an iridescent shimmer coming from the red on the canvas, picking up the light and bouncing it back onto his body. He was shirtless, wearing an apron to cover some very stained cargo shorts. He looked nothing like he had when they first met, nor how he’d looked the day before in his suit.

He was splattered with paint and glitter. His bare chest shined in the light. His arms were lined with various brush strokes, like he’d tested the paint on his own body. It looked like he’d just come from an explosion at an arts and crafts store. And he looked—fucking hot.

Just like the room itself, the chaos suited him. Sure, it was dirty and all over the place. But it also seemed so natural, raw, and wild. It was like watching a caveman painting the walls, or like peering into a scene from the past, when humans were nomads. Not working behind desks, but bouncing from meal to meal, only stopping for a night of passionate sex or an afternoon of hunting. Her heart thumped against her chest.

Usually, she would run far away from a mess like this room, from stuff that could stain her expensive clothes or ruin her hair. But right now, she found herself wanting to jump all over him. She wanted that paint to rub off his body onto hers. To be covered in stripes and splatters—to be stained with his primal markings.

She started to back away. This wasn’t right. She was there to turn him down, quit her job, and never see his ass again. She couldn’t begin to try when the only thought on her mind was him pushing her up against the canvas, staining her back in blue, red, and gray.

Her heel hit a bucket of paint and it fell over. It made a huge noise, sending a stream of yellow paint next to her expensive shoes. She jumped and let out a squeal. Her breathing became labored and a shriek of fear shot straight up her spine. She backed away from the paint and rammed right into Mr. Spencer.

She gasped and turned around. He grabbed her before she could fall over. Her heels had been saved from the yellow river flowing from the bucket, but the black dress he had so kindly given to her that morning was now coated with paint that’d soared through the air.

“Sorry.” She looked away. Tried to stare at anything but his smooth, rock-hard muscles, and broad chest. “I ruined the dress.”

“And spilled eight hundred pounds worth of specially mixed paint.”

She shook her head. “I-I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be—”

“Are you okay?”

She nodded. “Yeah. Sorry about the paint too.” She glanced down at her heels once more, making sure they hadn’t been ruined.

“It's no problem, I can get more. The wait is the worst part.” He looked up at the canvas he’d been working on.

“You made these?” She stared back at the painting of the blue woman, and at the others in the room.

He nodded. “It's my hobby.”

“They're incredible.” She looked around the room once again, scanning every single item she could see from where they were.

“They're mostly unfinished.”

“I noticed.”

He smirked. “Of course you did.”

“Why?”

He shrugged. “I get a new idea and want to try it out. Sometimes I just forget a project halfway through because it isn't working. Sometimes I leave it and pick up on it again when my head is clear. Can take me anywhere from a day to five years to finish a piece. If I ever finish it at all.”

All the feelings and emotions in the room overwhelmed her at once. The man really was a damn genius. Not a genius in his field, but a fucking genius. Why didn’t he sell these? If only he could apply the same attention to his company, maybe he wouldn't be having so much trouble with everything—his house, his entire life.

He let go of her waist and picked up the paintbrush from the floor. Matty mumbled as he moved over to a little water fountain on a table, where he rinsed the brush carefully, removing traces of chipped paint and dust.

“Maybe if the place was neat and clean you wouldn’t have that problem.”

He shrugged. “Clay breaks into dust quickly. Paint dries and crumbles. I would be cleaning all day if I were to try and keep this place in order.”

“You should have someone do it for you?”

He glared at her. “Fuck no.”

She stared, blinking. “What?”

“Nobody is allowed to clean in here. Nobody ever has.”

“I can see that. But it could use it. Then your brushes would stay clean, and there wouldn't be cans of paint everywhere for people to knock over. You’d be able to see across the room. A little organization would fix it right up.”

He shrugged. “This isn't disorganized.”

“It isn't organized either.”

“I know where everything is. Everything makes sense. Things are always exactly where I put them, precisely as I left them. If someone else were to come in here and tidy I’d never know where to find anything, and it would never be within reach.”

“That makes absolutely no sense to me.”

He shrugged. “It doesn't have to. This isn't your painting room. This isn't your art. Nobody but me ever uses this space. So why does it matter if it makes sense to anyone but me?”

That was a good point. Christina spotted a chair and sat down. “Do you mind if I stay for a bit?”

“I'm not paying you to watch me work.”

She nodded. Should she tell him? That was why she was there. To say she didn't want his money, or his job anymore. “It’s my lunch break.”

He flashed her a stern look. “Didn’t know you knew how to take a break.” He eyed her curiously, then nodded. “Okay. Just don't talk to me, touch anything, or clean.”

“Not even the paint I spilled?”

“Especially that. It’s a mark you were here. I like it there.” He turned back to his canvas.

The familiar tingling shot through Christina’s face and down to her legs. Jesus, this guy just said—things. Christina wasn't sure if he meant it or was joking, but she sat back and watched him continue to work as the yellow paint spread out slowly around the feet of the easels and stands. Something about what he said really resonated with her. The last thing she’d considered when she knocked over the paint was that it was art, or a reminder of her to him. Once again, he was sweet and kind, in the most annoying way possible.

She thought about things as she watched him slap paint around. Maybe she shouldn’t end their contract just yet. She’d been afraid that she’d exposed too much of herself to him, but now, they seemed to be on a more level playing field. He’d shown her some of himself, even if it weren’t by choice. Maybe she should wait and see what other surprises might be in store. She’d definitely liked what she’d seen in this room.