Chapter Twenty-One
Clover stared at him and stepped back. “Since when?”
Van Gogh couldn’t blame her for not trusting him. He’d been a bigger tool than he’d thought or Tor had claimed, unaware of the awful things he’d done at the party and in the following weeks until she pointed them out. “I knew for sure I loved you when you got me the pimp shirt.”
She laughed and sobered quickly. “Dudes your age wear stuff like that all the time.”
“That would be popular guys. Not me. I’m imperfect as hell.” He held out his arms to show her, praying she still liked what she saw.
A woman passed. Her luggage-size shoulder bag whapped him.
Clover looked over and shouted, “Hey, be careful. You could have broken his arm. That would have cost you big bucks. He’s a famous artist.”
Even after he’d wounded her so deeply, she protected and praised him. His throat constricted. He smiled. “Thanks.”
Her features softened, but she kept her distance. “You haven’t worked on your paintings, have you?”
“Not recently. I’m going to start again as soon as your thing here is over.”
She frowned. “That’s two days from now.”
“I know. Alice gave me the brochure when I went to your place last night.”
“You were there? Why?”
“I called and sent a text. You didn’t answer. When I got there and banged on the door and you still didn’t answer, I worried the heat made you pass out.”
She put more distance between them and bumped into her table. “Why not call 911? EMTs are paid to take care of medical emergencies. They would have saved you the trouble.”
“Whatever concerns you isn’t any trouble. It’s important to me. I should have proven that to you before now.” He lifted his hands in surrender. “I went to your place last night to talk and fix things between us. The people from the party aren’t and will never be my posse. They didn’t unfriend me on Facebook. I did that to them and physically threw Zeke out of the parlor. When Peaches called, I told her to get her tats somewhere else. The others, too. They’ll never bother me again, thank God.”
Clover muttered beneath her breath.
“They won’t, and I did do that. I swear.”
“I’m not doubting it. What did those SOBs do? They better not have said anything mean about you or your work.”
God, he adored her. No guy deserved to be as lucky as he was, especially after he’d let her down repeatedly. “No one said anything insulting. They used me. On some level, I understood that from the beginning, but I also liked being included rather than kept on the outside.”
She slapped his arm. “What’s the matter with you? Those goons aren’t good enough to breathe the same air as you. You’re hotter than any of the other guys.”
He wasn’t, except to her. That’s all that counted. “I couldn’t care less if they think I’m a ghoul, but my work does matter. That’s why I was really stupid with them. It’s nice to have people gush over what you’ve poured your heart into.”
Her anger faded, replaced by weariness or sorrow. “Yeah, it is.” She touched her music jewelry. “I should get back to pushing my stuff.”
He couldn’t let her go. Not again. She hadn’t even acknowledged his feelings for her or said they might have a chance again. “Sure, but if you don’t mind me asking, how much have you sold today?”
“I had a couple of bites.” She waved her hand. “No takers yet.”
“Let’s change that. I’ll help.”
A man’s voice thundered from the sound system. “Xavier’s Uncommon Designs, table forty-five, is going BOGO during the next two hours.”
Van Gogh lifted his shoulders. “BOGO?”
“Buy one get one free.”
“Good idea. Have they announced your sale, giveaway, contest, or whatever you’re doing yet?”
Clover made a face. “The coordinator refused. Said my work doesn’t meet their guidelines. How can you possibly stick around to help me?” She glanced at the wall clock. “Shouldn’t you be heading back? Your shift starts in a few hours.”
“I’m on vacation until your thing’s over. Lauren’s cool with that. If she hadn’t been, I would have quit. Let’s see what we have here.” He didn’t like what Clover had done with her table. “Why are your Clover Cuffs hidden in the back? They’re your most unique work.”
“Maybe for a BDSM convention. Not here. The coordinator said my banner’s too racy.”
“Let’s see.”
She unfurled the thing. “Peaches and Shell had less on at the party.”
Van Gogh didn’t want to talk about that or them ever. “You’re fully dressed.” She wore a strapless black top similar to an old-fashioned corset, her black jeans, and heels.
“Unfortunately he didn’t give me points for my outfit.” She put the banner away. “No biggie. Most people who’ve come by don’t know what the cuffs are for.”
“Let’s show them.” He lifted the man-finger ones, admiring her fantastic work. “You did an amazing job on these.”
“Thanks.”
He returned her smile, his eyes as wet as hers. For the first time in his life, Van Gogh wouldn’t have minded crying, in front of other people, no less. Being with Clover again was as sacred as a moment could get. “Put out your wrists.”
She laughed. “You’re going to cuff me?”
“Like I said, you’re fully dressed. He can’t complain about that or you advertising your stuff. That’s why you’re here. Let’s give these rubes a demonstration. Show them what people in Northwood Village do for a good time.”
Her gaze turned inward. “If I’d worn a collar and chain, you could have walked me around the room as your meek sub.”
That would happen only in her apartment or his, their intimate moments between them and no one else, if she gave him another chance. “When we get home, we can make a video. Put it on YouTube and BDSM sites that sell cuffs. Even places that are into funkier jewelry.”
“Oh my God, seriously?” She clapped. “That would be too awesome. You know how to do a vid?”
For her, he’d learn. Whatever it took to make her happy and successful. “It’ll be amazing, I promise. Think your band customers would like to donate some music?”
“How cool would that be? No harm in asking. Hold on. I need to take this down.” She grabbed her smartphone. “We could put your paintings in the background, against black walls so they’d stand out and attract attention to your work. During a particularly ominous strain in the music, the camera could swoop in on your somber stuff.”
She texted and paced. Attendees dodged her. “You could be at your easel, painting away when I come in. Then, as the Dom, you could slap the cuffs on me, your sub.”
“I’d rather be behind the camera, so to speak.”
“No. You have to be in it.” She wove around two women to get to him. “You could wear a hood to hide your face but leave your chest bare to show off your awesome muscles and ink. No one would know it was you.”
“Except for my tat.”
“It’s that unique?”
“Pretty much.”
Her mouth turned down then widened into a smile. “We could cover it with heavy-duty makeup. Hollywood does that all the time. This is going to be epic.”
“Excuse me.” An older man leaned in. “Do either of you know where table seven hundred is?”
Clover grabbed Van Gogh’s wrist and pointed in the opposite direction he had for the woman who’d asked. “That way. Keep going. You can’t miss it.”
“Thanks, miss.”
“You bet.” She released Van Gogh. “I should have worked the floor as information. Would have at least made something by now.”
“The day’s young. Put your wrists together.”
She giggled.
The sound opened his heart even more and touched his soul. To live without her was unthinkable. He wasn’t about to try.
Once he’d snapped on the cuffs, he positioned her to face the advancing throng. “Don’t move. Be right back.”
“Where are you going?”
“To get a prop.” He ran from table to table and finally found what he wanted at an American Indian jewelry display.
The wrinkled woman behind the table smiled. “Do you like Hopi and Navajo?”
“Love them. How much do you want for your pole?” He pointed.
“The one holding up my sign?”
“Yeah. If you move the other two, you don’t need the third. I can help so your banner still looks good. I’ll give you twenty bucks for the pole.”
“Fifty.”
It wasn’t worth two. “Thirty.”
“Cash.”
“You bet.” He handed over the money, made sure her sign looked good, and returned to Clover.
She eyed the pole. “What’s that for?”
“To display you.” He put it in front of her table. “By any chance, did you bring a hammer and nails?”
“Yeah. To hang my banner.” She inclined her head.
He pounded two nails into the top of the pole then draped the links between her cuffs over them to support her wrists. “Lower your eyes and look meek like I’m a Dom about to auction you off to the lusty crowd or punish you for their enjoyment.”
Her blush deepened. “Someone’s been reading X-rated romances.”
More like he watched porn online. “Let me do the talking. Okay?”
She nodded.
A young couple passed. The woman did a double take and returned, pulling the guy with her. She smiled at the cuffs. “Are those what I think they are?”
“Depends.” Van Gogh stroked the items. “If you’re talking about Clover Cuffs, the hottest thing to hit the East and West Coasts, then you’d be right. You can use them to play with a significant other or wear them as jewelry.” He showed her the dragon and double snake ones.
She lifted both pieces to the light. “I can see these hanging from a belt loop or a purse.”
“Clover’s clients also hang them on the wall above their beds.”
The guy grinned. “I’d like that.”
“You would.” Grinning, she bumped his arm and tried on the dragon one. “Do I need a key to get this off?”
“Let’s ask Clover, the designer.” Van Gogh turned the floor over to her.
Her eyes sparkled with excitement and delight. “Once you have them on, tug hard. They’ll open easily.”
“Nice touch. How many of these do you have available?”
“How many do you want?”
She and the woman put their heads together and agreed on the order. After ringing up the sale, Clover handed over the receipt. “Your cuffs will ship in three weeks.”
“Can’t wait. These are going to make great bridesmaids’ gifts. Thanks.”
Clover waved bye to the couple then threw her arms around Van Gogh. “That was awesome. Let’s do it again.”
They sold three additional orders along with five arm tat bracelets, several earrings, and numerous flowered necklaces. Four merchandisers approached Clover, expressing interest in her mancuffs and the music piece for their clients, retail jewelers in Miami, Key West, and Fort Lauderdale. She talked business like a pro and exchanged cards with them.
Van Gogh added up the receipts. “Not bad for a day’s work, but tomorrow will be better.”
She hugged him. “What you did today for me was beyond nice. You do love me.”
Nothing else was possible. He embraced her. “Can we be friends again, please?”
“I want that. I’d like us to be the way we were before the stupid party.”
“Absolutely. You come first. Always will—oh hell, I almost forgot what I brought you.”
“Besides yourself?”
He laughed. “Yeah. The design for your tat. Finished it last night.” He pulled the paper from his pocket and handed it over.
She touched the 3-D geometric drawing. Spokes burst from a center circle. Stars shot from the tips, scattered, and rained down.
“If you don’t like it, that’s cool. I’ll come up with something else. Something better.”
“Than this? Impossible. I love it and you. I should have said it when you did. It was mean of me not to.”
“You had your reasons. I understand.”
“I’m so glad to have you back.” She threw her arms around him.
He staggered and righted himself. “Are you crying?”
She nodded and pressed close. “Promise this is our beginning. Please.”
“Absolutely.” He held her with a right she’d given him. “Nothing else will do.”