Katherine
I've never taken a photography class in my life, and I'm not well-versed in the art of it all—if you don't count taking pictures with my cell phone—but I do know what I like. And this photo exhibit is…interesting.
It's a photographer's portrait collection called Red Hot.
The theme that binds each and every one of these pictures is that the models in these photos are all redheads.
"I've always thought gingers were sexy," Robin says, secretly giving me a wink as we walk through the gallery. "If this doesn't inspire you with your writing, I don't know what will."
In one photo, a man is flexing, and seemingly deep in thought with his gaze somewhere in the distance. The background is blue, matching his eyes.
In another portrait, a man stares down the lens of the camera, his red beard and chiseled chest acting as focal points.
"Like what you see?" The guy following us asks, walking up behind me and nudging me playfully. “The name’s Blake, by the way.”
"Katherine,” I say as I try to think of a reply. “You could say that," I smile.
Two can play this game.
"Just so you know," he says, pointing and looking straight at my neck, "that freckle is more beautiful than anything I'm seeing on these gingers."
"Nice try, but I don't have freckles."
"You do," he says, stepping closer and brushing his fingers just below my ear. "It's right there."
The second he touches me, a thrill runs down my body. I find myself blushing against my will.
How did he notice that freckle? I completely forgot about it. It's such a small detail…but I have to admit, he's right. I do have a small freckle on my neck. It's there all right, and always has been.
I look him up and down for a moment. If I'm being honest, there's something hot about Blake.
Sure, he's a great looking guy—built and charming, with piercing eyes, the intensity of a blowtorch. But there's also a poetic confidence about him that is unusual. He seems to view the world through the lens of art—looking through color, symmetry, and shape—and he isn't apologetic about it. I can respect that.
But…and this is a serious but—he has some major personality flaws.
He's arrogant, and probably goes through women faster than he changes outfits.
And I'm not about to get played by another man again—not after Dale. And something tells me that getting involved with Blake is like holding a match to a gas tank.
Total chaos and drama.
Robin walks ahead us, scrutinizing the walls of photos, and Blake takes the opportunity to walk beside me.
"I have a question and need a woman's advice," he says, changing the subject.
"Sure," I say, shrugging my shoulders.
"Let's say—hypothetically speaking—I see an attractive woman," he says. "Do I approach her, or is that too direct?"
"Why are you asking me?" I say. "I'm the last person you should ask."
"Humor me, will you?"
"Fine," I say. "I think you should approach her. Honesty is the best policy."
With that, Blake's lips turn up into a smile.
"I'm glad you said that. Because in that case," he says, stopping and turning to me. "I'm Blake. It's nice to meet you."
He reaches his hand out to mine and shakes it.
I laugh. "Does that work on women?"
He ignores my question and gives me one of his own.
"Have you ever considered modeling?" he says.
"Me? You're joking, right?"
"Serious as a heart attack."
"No," I say, shaking my head. "That's not what I do."
"I think you should model for me."
I can't help but laugh out loud.
"You have the wrong girl," I say. "I'm not the type to give you a private show in your apartment, romping around naked for your sole pleasure."
"Not so fast," he says, resting a hand on my arm. "That's not what I mean. I'm a painter, and I'm looking for a new model to paint. Fresh inspiration, if you will."
I shake my head. "Of course you are," I say, laughing. "And I'm a secret princess. Nice try, but I call bullshit. I'm not buying it."
"You seriously don't believe me, do you?"
I shake my head and then watch as he pulls out his phone.
"Here," he says. "I'll prove it to you."
He scrolls through his phone, bringing up various websites that have done interviews with him—the Huffington Post art column, Juxtapose magazine, and more. The list is impressive. Then he brings up his Instagram profile.
"And this is some of my work," he says, scrolling through pictures of his art."
"I had no idea," I say, feeling slightly embarrassed. It's bad enough I'd never heard of him before, and according to his Instagram account, he has close to 750k followers, but I just called him a liar.
"So what do you say? Want to model for me?"
"Even though you're an artist and Instagram-famous, I'm still not interested in posing for you," I say.
"Come on," he says, smiling. "I don't bite."
Instead of answering, I just shake my head.
"I have an idea," he says. "How about you come to my apartment and look at my work."
Just then, Robin walks over to us. She's apparently been eavesdropping because she says, "You should totally go Katherine! This could inspire your writing."
"I don't know, I–"
But before I can finish, Robin cuts me off. "Oh wow, look at the time," she says, pulling her cell phone from her purse. "I've gotta go. I uh – I have some plans this evening," she says, in a tone that's not totally convincing.
I watch as she gives me a quick hug and kiss on the cheek and leaves the gallery. I watch her until I can't see her anymore.
Now that she's gone, it hits me. I realize that I'm standing here, alone with Instagram-famous-superstar-artist Blake.
And he's wearing a grin wider than Texas.