Mr. Berkshire (Book 1 in the For Better Or Worst Trilogy)

Chapter 15

     Nearly 2 months since I first left Georgia for Seattle and still the city is a complete stranger to me. There are still so many parts I have yet to see. Most of my time is spent between A Likely Story and Mr. Berkshire's publishing. However, now that i've officially been hired by Mr. Berkshire and i've made the hard decision to leave A Likely Story, I find that I have a lot more free time than I know what to do with.

     With Noah's endless harassment, my first stop, on my list of attractions that I must see, is the Miscellaneous Museum. It's one of the most popular museums in the city for it's strange paintings and random knick knacks. Skylar was all too ready to jump at the chance to make up for her spilling the beans to Mr. Berkshire, but Noah had other plans for the two of them. I insisted that Skylar go through with their plans. She would simply owe me another time.

     This is why I stand before a painting of a naked woman surrounded by flowers in the middle of the ocean. Around me, there are a few art connoisseurs eyeing the painting as if its feeding them valuable, all knowing information. Not wanting to feel out of place, I put on my most thoughtful expression, which can also easily be mistaken for a constipated expression, and eye the painting as if it will hand over the world's most deepest darkest secrets. My brows furrow in concentration. Come on painting. Explain your meaning.

     "You alright there?" Yanked from my staring competition with the naked woman, I look to the only man that voice could belong to. His warm brown eyes glimmer with amusement, a look that i've become all too familiar with. "Because you look like you're either gonna fight the woman or constipated. Not quite sure which is worse." He stands beside me, hands held behind his back, eyeing the painting in suspicion. Laughing, I shake my head.

     "I'm trying to look like an art connoisseur." Following his lead, I hold my hands behind my back and look at the painting with the same amount of intensity as Roman. "Is it working? Do I blend in?" I look at him from the corner of my eyes, waiting for his response. Unexpectedly, his gaze meets mine where I find that the amusement has faded and been replaced by something a little more serious.

     "It's impossible for you to blend in, Sawyer." My name on his lips always sends a tingle down my spine. It's unfamiliar, but warm. He holds my eyes with his own. A game of chicken. Who will look away first? Eyes matching the hues of a forest, a bright lively green representing the life of earth, and those earthy brown hues, a rich soil that nurtures the roots of life, both sharing an unspoken language. There are so many questions I want to ask him, but wouldn't dare. I'm first to break the connection by darting my eyes to the painting across the room.

     "Tell me about that painting." Through the small crowd of people, I make my way across the room to the painting of dark Seattle buildings from a skyline view. On closer inspection, a tiny black crow is perched on a building, eyeing the city life below. "What's this one mean?" Out of all the paintings I've seen, this one is by far the most beautiful. Several shades of grey compose the painting, but it's the few striking blues that tie it together. The buildings are washing away with the rain that is known in Seattle, but the crow is firm in its place. Darkness can be truly alluring.

     "Why this one?" He stands beside me. His presence threatens to swallow me whole. Actually, he could swallow this entire room. By the looks of it, among the marble flooring and great walls, he could be a Greek statue among the pieces of art. 

     "It's different than the others." Between the varying shades and the unique style, it's the one painting so far the draws me in. The strings of my heart are being pulled on in a gentle guitar solo. The painting is demanding to be felt. Compared to the others, this one piece of art resonates with me, sees me in a way no other has. 

     "How so?" He asks carefully, a tone that couldn't break the shell of an egg with its weight. He's looking between the painting and I as if he's searching for something. For a moment, my eyes drift from the piece of art to the very art of mystery in his eyes. There, below the milk chocolate surface, I know I would find the hidden secrets of Roman Berkshire. If only those orbs would melt away and reveal them to me. Finally, my eyes return to the painting, trying to find the words to explain how this painting emits these feelings within me.

     "Do you ever feel like you're alone, even when surrounded by the ones that are supposed to love you and you're supposed to love back? Even when you're in the middle of the hustle and bustle? Like you're looking from above, watching life continue, but not truly experiencing it? Maybe you'll always be distant from everyone else because you're living an out of body experience?" The words, one after another, tumble from my mouth. These words that could never belong to me, yet are using my voice and lips to express themselves. Never, not in a million years, did I think I would ever admit to such dark, troubling thoughts. Especially not to my boss. Not to a man that I'm currently growing feelings for. Not to a man that could never relate since he was, afterall, the billionaire bachelor of Seattle. Reluctantly, I look to him and find that he's staring at me like I'm an anomaly. Like I'm out of my mind. Perhaps I am. "Never mind. You wouldn't understand." I laugh lightly in hopes to lighten the mood. "It was dumb anyways. This place makes you feel like you're some kind of art genius." 

     A flash of hurt mixed with anger passes through his eyes, but before him or I can say anything else, an alert rings from his pocket. He looks at the message across the screen.

     "Shit." He hisses, shoving the phone back into his pocket. He looks at me once more, a stern expression painted across his features. "You know nothing, Ms. Calloway." Not bothering to wait for a response, he leaves me and disappears around a corner. 

      Speechless, I don't move to follow after him. Did I say something wrong? Confused, I look to the painting for answers. Apparently, I missed something. Was I supposed to believe that a man like Roman Berkshire could remotely relate to what I felt in this big city, or even in the presence of my own flesh and blood? Just as I'm about to abandon the eerie painting, I notice the signature at the bottom. R. Berkshire. I look in the direction the man disappeared to, then back at the painting. How could I have been so dumb? The only reason I'm able to feel this way at the sight of this painting is because he, as the artist, was able to produce it himself. Maybe we weren't as different as I thought.

What other secrets do you think Mr. Berkshire is hiding?

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