Free Cake by Lauren Dane Page A

smile on his lips. “I think we need some champagne and to move to my bed for the next round. What do you say?”
    What else could she say but “Yes, please”?
    He stood easily, bringing her to her feet as he did, but instead of moving right away he pulled her close and kissed the remaining teaspoon of wits she had left right out of her.
    “Now, champagne and fucking.”
    Wren figured there were few better ways of spending a Wednesday afternoon and followed so she could ogle him without interruption.
    “It feels delightfully bad to swill champagne and have sex in the middle of the day. You have a pretty awesome life.” She laughed as he pushed her back to his bed and followed.
    “I do have a pretty awesome life, as you say.” He popped the cork and handed her a glass, clinking his to it. “Better when it’s a lovely bicycle messenger in my bed instead of being frustrated in front of a canvas and feeling as if I’ll never create anything good again.”
    She’d seen him frustrated and blocked, yes, but this was a glimpse into his vulnerability in a way he hadn’t shared before. She was touched he’d be vulnerable in front of her.
    He drained his glass before she could say anything, pulling her down with him. She stretched to put her glass on his bedside table and let him bring her back to slide her body across his.
    “See? I knew I was remembering right about your recovery time.” She reached down to give his cock a squeeze to underline the point.
    “My cock likes you. Clearly.” He rolled his hips, thrusting into her fist.
    She swung a leg and sat up, astride him. “I’m glad. Let’s see how much more it does when I’m finished.”
    They settled into a bit of a routine. They both had full lives. But in between they saw each other, had great sex, talked about art and music and got to know one another on a different, new level. He remained skittish but it didn’t really bother her. She knew without a doubt that what they had, that connection, was something special. Wren wasn’t in any great hurry to name it. It was what it was and that was all right with her.
    It had been a few days since she’d seen him last. She’d been busy with school stuff, working to get her film project finished and turned in. Trying to pretend she wasn’t obsessively checking her mail and making sure her phone was on and that she hadn’t missed the agent’s call.
    Gregori hadn’t called and she wasn’t surprised. They saw each other regularly anyway. But she couldn’t deny the little bounce in her step as she approached his door and knocked.
    She heard music and knocked one last time before letting herself in.
    He didn’t look up as she came inside. He was working with the same giant canvas, but this time it was at least seventy percent full. Clearly he wasn’t stalled anymore, or if he was, he did a rather fine job of pretending he wasn’t.
    A house, or the remains of one, sat in the lower left. Spots of yellow stood out against the bleached, weathered wood as it lay in a tumble. The bones of a front porch were dotted with life as plants had taken it back. A field lay fallow just beyond. The sky was gray/purple.
    It should have seemed desolate. But it wasn’t. There was life there. A different sort of life, but the tendrils of the vines had taken hold on a porch rail. Birds would nest in the eaves that hadn’t collapsed. It wasn’t the sadness of an abandoned home that the painting made her feel, it was the rebirth that rang out so strongly.
    He looked up, catching her there. Pleasure marked his features before he schooled himself. But she saw it.
    “Incredible.”
    He stepped back. “Tell me why.” A demand.
    “Rebirth. Reclamation but not at the expense of anything else. There is life here. The slice of color keeps away the desolation. Your use of shadowing is judicious and it works against the sense of loss.”
    He paused, clearly surprised. “Are you sure?”
    “Nope. I read it in a book. I’m