Daddies Brat

I sat in my car outside the museum. I underestimated how long the drive here would take, and now my legs tingled in my heels with anticipation and fear. I hurried up the steps to the front door because it was almost three.

“Damn traffic,” I thought while rolling my eyes.

I swallowed my anxiety and told the museum receptionist my name and why I was there. “Um, hi,” ahem “I’m here for an interview at 3 o’clock with Mr. Morris. My name is Vera Carter.”

My previous confidence left me when I made eye contact with the glass of sparkling cherry wine in front of me. She had beautiful sandy hair that was effortlessly tied up with a clip and striking green eyes. Freckles danced all over her but were so light they were like kisses. I followed these spots down her tanned body, and I only slightly stopped when I saw her beautiful breasts strained in her perfect white dress.

Unfazed by my obvious allure and fear of her, she spoke to me, bringing me from my daze, “I will call him to receive you as he likes to have interviews in his private office upstairs.” She reached for a phone while I fidgeted with the hem of my skirt.

I looked around the room at the dark grey marble covering the floor and walls. The ceiling was a renaissance-style fresco. My eyes continued wandering while the receptionist spoke with a deep voice on the other line.

After a pause, she hung up the phone daintily with her light blue nails. “Mr. Morris will be coming down the stairs any minute for you.” She returned to her computer, barely giving me time to sit in one of the nice plush chairs before saying, “I hope you have better luck than the others.”

Before I could respond, I heard loud heavy footsteps from the marble staircase to my right. I turned, and the most handsome man I had ever seen stood before me. He was about forty-five, had shoulder-length light brown hair, a well-groomed beard, and dark grey eyes almost blue like a heavy storm about to burst. When he reached me, he stood probably 6’1″, making me feel tiny at 5’4″, even with my heels. He went for my hand to introduce himself, and I had to force myself to meet his gaze while he touched me.

“You must be Miss Carter. I’m Claude Morris, the head director for the modern art department here.” He swiftly introduced himself while shaking my hand. When he released his grip, it felt like static had run rampant in my hand. “Let’s walk to my office and talk.” He gestured towards the stairs looking expectant at me to follow. Which I happily did, like a dog following its owner.

He guided me through different halls filled with artwork from different periods of time. I was distinctly aware of each step I took and how heavy my breathing may have seemed to him. We walked in silence, but I took this time to evaluate him and fill my mind with selfish fantasies that would never happen. I watched his lean arms and shoulders move beneath his black cardigan. Brown chest hair poked out from his green undershirt. My thighs started tingling, and I pretended to look at an art piece to hide my embarrassment.

We finally made it to his office, and he allowed me in first. I made sure to sway a bit as I entered. Perhaps that would get his attention.

“Why don’t you have a seat anywhere that is comfortable for you.” He waved his hands to a chaise lounge near the window and a high-back velvet armchair tucked in a different corner. He shut the door firmly and moved to his desk in the middle of the room facing the window.

The room was almost too small as it was filled with artwork in various stages of unboxing. There was also a large bookshelf on one wall. The massive window was the only clear wall space near the desk, so I moved toward the lounge as confidently as possible. Mr. Morris had already professionally positioned himself in his chair and was now watching every move I made. I sat on the lounge, carefully pulling out my printed recommendations and cover letter.

He chuckled softly and said, “I’m glad to see you’ve prepared. I haven’t seen someone this put together for this opportunity before.” Crap, did he mean I was overdressed, or were the printouts too much? I crossed my leg tighter in an attempt to hide my worry.

He opened the folder on his desk and ran his finger down the first page. I watched his finger and imagined it was my legs that finger ran down. “So let’s just get to it, shall we? You graduated this past fall with a bachelor’s degree in art history emphasizing renaissance art?” He gazed at me, waiting for a response.

“Yes, I did.” I struggled to hold his stormy gaze. My foot tapped anxiously, which he noticed.

“What made you pursue this type of degree?” He licked his thumb and flipped through my file while I thought of an answer. I watched every movement intently.

I made sure to move forward and relax my body before answering. “I’ve always loved learning about how people in different time periods used art as a way of ultimate expression of feeling, much like we do today.”This content © Nôv/elDr(a)m/a.Org.

“That was very well-spoken. I’ve always loved the raw emotion one can feel when looking at a piece of art especially knowing that someone else might interpret something completely different.” His steely face softened while he spoke. I even saw hints of a smile.

Not wanting to lose this wedge I had chipped into him, I stood up and walked to the nearest pile of artwork near me.

“Who are these by?” I said to him over my shoulder as I moved, removing wrapping paper to reveal the art. He stood up from his chair and slowly walked over to me. He began to pull the large painted canvas from its box.

“Nolan Emerson. He is an up-and-coming artist.” He finished uncovering the piece and stepped back. I began to take in what I saw. It was abstract, but nude figures were definitely portrayed in carnal positions. I started to blush because as I absorbed this, Mr. Morris moved closer to me, almost touching my shoulder.

“Isn’t the use of red and dark purple remarkable in telling what he wants his viewers to feel while looking at this? Almost the same color as your blouse.” He softly said this while gently touching my arm. His hand was gone as fast as it had come near me.

I didn’t know what to say. He obviously wanted a response, so I tried to be as alluring as possible and faced him. “You can almost feel what each couple is feeling. How emotionally raw and euphoric they must feel being with the other person.”

I spoke so quietly I thought he hadn’t heard me, but after an inhale of breath, he spoke. “It’s been a long time since I’ve heard someone speak about art the way you do, as if each piece you look at is somehow your own, and you’ve known yourself through them for years.”

My calm demeanor broke, and I went to sit again. Where is the man I was told to fear and not even try to work with?

“I hope I didn’t make you uncomfortable,” he said, sitting on the edge of the coffee table in front of the lounge. “I just mean, I believe it would be quite an experience for us both to have you come into our museum.” He was so close to me I could smell his cologne.

My head and knees betrayed me. I contained my girlish excitement about him saying yes to my employment and entirely gave into the ache in my thighs. I leaned forward and affectionately set my hand on his knee. “I am so happy to hear that. I think this would be a very beneficial opportunity for us both.” I said this while trailing my hand away, pulling every fingertip from his knee as slowly as possible. When my hand was gone, he cleared his throat and smoothed his shoulder-length hair from his face.

Getting up from the table, he went back to his desk and returned to his marble attitude. I quickly straightened myself while he was turned away. Did I step too far?

He opened his desk calendar and began to ask me, “I’d like to have you start as soon as possible. Would this next Monday at eight work for you?”

I gazed at him with glassy eyes before snapping back quickly and responding, “Yes, that would be great!”

My toes and fingers were already bouncing with excitement. I was disappointed when he stood up from his chair and reached out his hand. In his hand was his forest green business card.

“I look forward to seeing you then. Please email me if you have any questions at all.”

I rose out of my seat and took the card from his hand with our fingertips barely touching.

He walked me to the door with a slight smile and said lightly, “The entrance is down the hall and the stairs to the right. It really has been wonderful meeting you, Vera.” With those last words, I saw that intricate facade falter. He shut the door, and I slowly started to work my legs towards the exit.

I returned to my apartment in no time since traffic was nonexistent and the interview was longer than two hours, but it felt so fast.