Paint Splattered Chaos and Passion

The gallery smelt of paint, polish, and determination. Amelia straightened her blazer once more, trying not to check her watch for the fifteenth time. She could hear conversations all around her as she sipped her white wine after a sharp inhale and an exhaled sigh. For some reason, her law firm, Taylor and Partners, had thrown money at the arts this quarter, and now here she was—expected to smile, nod, and engage in small talk (her favourite), all whilst pretending to understand how a canvas splattered with colours was conceptualised with some deeper meaning about life.

Suddenly, Amelia heard a low, husky laugh. Her gaze moved across the room and stopped dead in its tracks on a woman wrapped in teal silk. Her brunette hair was wavy, falling to one side of her shoulder. Her green eyes were intense, fixed equally across the small group surrounding her as they listened to her spiel about what could only be assumed was her art piece. A glass of red dangled from her fingers. She didn’t need to try; Amelia could tell whatever she was doing worked. She tried to focus on what the woman was saying—something about indigo and raw texture—and the group leaned in closer to her like she was gravity. Amelia felt the pull too.

She was abruptly pulled from her eavesdropping when one of her colleagues, Jade, nudged her.

“That’s Riley Beckett. She’s very popular at the moment,” Jade said.

Amelia muttered something like, “Oh, really?”—as if to sound unimpressed. Her posh English accent drew out the last word—but she was lying. She was definitely impressed.

Suddenly, the woman’s long eyelashes fluttered up and landed on Amelia. Riley finished talking about her piece to the small group gathered around her. While they were interested, they were boring—a bunch of older women and men, posh art enthusiasts likely in their sixties. Riley had done what she needed to do, but she was glad it was over. She liked it better when she attracted younger crowds, ones easier on the eye—like the woman she saw standing over there in black heeled boots, a black pantsuit to match, and a striped blazer. Her blue eyes were piercing, and her blonde wavy hair was luscious. She stood tall, lips pursed.

Their eyes met, and it sparked instant electricity, static in a room full of people. Riley walked over to Amelia, her black heels clinking across the tiles.

“I saw you looking,” she said, her English accent much more subtle. Her deep sea-green eyes locked with Amelia’s blue ocean eyes. “Interested in my piece?” She didn’t care if she was or not—she just wanted an excuse to talk to her.

Amelia straightened the moment Riley approached, her posture snapping into place like she would in a courtroom. Up close, she noticed that the silk of Riley’s dress clung to places it had no right to. Her jaw tightened.

“I was looking,” Amelia admitted, voice low and smooth. “But not at the piece.”

She moved her gaze to the art piece Riley had just come from.

“If I wanted to look at chaos splattered on a wall, I’d just walk through my office on a Monday morning.”

Riley’s mouth tilted into a perplexed smirk, hardly offended. Before she could say anything, Amelia opened her mouth again.

“So, tell me, Riley Beckett,” she began. “Do you always leave your fan club hanging to come talk to strangers, or am I just lucky?”

The smirk curved into a cheeky smile. Riley could have mocked offense, but she knew Amelia wasn’t really looking at her art piece—she was looking at her. Riley stepped a little closer, her perfume lingering; notes of bergamot and sandalwood.

“Chaos to the everyday eye,” she said. “But to the artist, it’s organised chaos.”

Riley was still smiling when she spoke again.

“I don’t know—you tell me. You sound like the expert, using terms like my fan club.” She teased. “I’d shake your hand and introduce myself, but you already seem to know my name. What’s yours, snobby stranger?”

Amelia’s lips parted on a sharp inhale when Riley leaned in. Riley’s perfume hit her first—enticing and sultry all at once. In that moment, Amelia’s instinct was to retreat, to stand tall, turn her head, and walk away. But something about Riley drew her in. Riley stood too close, a teasing smirk still playing on her lips like she knew she’d already won.

“Snobby?” Amelia repeated, one brow raised. “I’d call it discerning.”

Her gaze flicked down to Riley’s lips curving around her own wine glass, then back up to those green eyes that refused to let her go. Still, Amelia extended a steady hand; under no circumstance could she show Riley the impact she was having on her.

“Amelia Sinclair,” she said finally, her voice steady but slightly softer than she meant it to be. “Defence attorney, which I imagine explains the snobbery.”

She almost grimaced. Still, her pulse quickened. Her fingers lingered around Riley’s for too long before she remembered to let go.

“In my defence, Riley Beckett, you look far more compelling than the splattered paint on the wall. So maybe I’m not the one who should be on trial here.”

When Riley’s hand met Amelia’s back, her pulse also quickened, a warm blush rising to her cheeks. Later, she would say it was because of the wine.

“Amelia Sinclair,” Riley repeated, testing the name on her lips. “I’m not sure whether I can take that as a compliment when my art is my work.” She flashed Amelia a sweet smile. “But I will anyway. No trial needed.”

The corners of Amelia’s lips tugged upward, though her eyes remained sharp.

“Take it however you like,” she murmured, her voice dropping low enough to feel like a private confession. “But if your art has half the presence you do in person, then I’d call that a win.”

She sipped her wine. Then, almost as if she needed to cover what she had just said, she raised her glass.

“To chaos then,” she said, clinking lightly against Riley’s. “Organised or otherwise.”

“Interesting,” Riley said as she bit her lip and took a sharp inhale. “I assumed it was disorganised chaos since it’s splattered on a wall.” She mocked Amelia’s voice as she said the last part. She laughed and sipped her wine after the toast.

Amelia almost choked on her wine, covering it with a sharp exhale through her nose. Her voice, tossed back at her with Riley’s wicked lip bite—who was this woman, and why did she make her pulse quicken in ways she didn’t care to analyse?

“Careful,” Amelia said, her eyes narrowing. “Mockery is admissible as evidence of…something.”

Her voice was low. She stepped a fraction closer, enough so her arm brushed Riley’s.

“Besides,” she added with a tilt of her head and her own smirk now, “I never said chaos couldn’t be interesting. Especially when it’s wrapped in silk and sharp wit.”

Riley bit her lip again before she could stop herself, and Amelia’s gaze dropped right onto them—quick but unmistakable. Amelia quickly looked back up, her composure barely hanging by a thread.

“Something,” Riley chimed in. “Well thought-out argument.” She teased. “In my defence, defence attorney Amelia Sinclair, teasing you is far better than talking about my art piece for the millionth time.”

Riley paused. Amelia thought she was not only attractive, but witty too. She felt her pulse quicken again and looked once more at Amelia’s composure and how she was dressed. She was very attractive too, also brilliantly witty and very smart. Riley cleared her throat before taking another sip of her wine.

Amelia noticed—oh, she noticed everything. Nothing got past her in a courtroom, and it was no different here. She felt Riley’s gaze like a live wire under her skin, the current hotter than the gallery lights overhead. She held Riley’s gaze, deliberately slow, the silence stretching taut and charged.

“You’re not wrong,” Amelia finally said, her voice smooth. “I’d take your teasing over another speech about brush strokes.” Her lips curved into a smirk as she spoke.

“Though,” she continued, “I’m not sure what’s more dangerous—your art or your mouth.”

Amelia leaned into Riley, their arms brushing again. Riley could smell the smoky, tobacco-like scent trailing from Amelia, mingling with her own bergamot and sandalwood. In that moment, it was dizzying for them both.

“Careful, Riley Beckett,” Amelia murmured, her eyes fixed on Riley as if she were cross-examining her and losing a case. “If you keep looking at me like that, you’ll notice I’m much better at cross-examinations than small talk.”

“Small talk, hey?” Riley responded. “Well, you do need to cross-examine my art and my mouth to see which one is more dangerous.”

She paused. “I think you’ll find it’s my mouth.”

Riley whispered it close to Amelia’s ear. Amelia felt a tremor move through her body. She was about to respond when she watched Riley spin on her heels. People were crowding around her art piece again. Amelia’s jaw tightened and her breath caught as she watched Riley walk away, her grip on her wine glass tightening.

She watched her, and suddenly she was laughing again, the sound mixing with the murmur of her admirers. Amelia stood a little less tall, wine forgotten as she watched Riley. She tried to rein herself back in, but she couldn’t.

God, Riley’s mouth. She had said it like it was a promise, a whispered dare.

Amelia’s gaze stayed on Riley without meaning to, admiring the way she commanded the room. She wasn’t eavesdropping anymore about her art piece—she was imagining Riley’s lips pressed to hers, her mouth proving every word of Riley’s taunt.

Suddenly, her colleague Jade approached her again, their shoulders brushing.

“Enjoying the show?” she asked, having just witnessed the pure tension that was Amelia Sinclair and Riley Beckett.

“More than expected,” Amelia murmured back, eyes still on Riley. She sipped her wine after that.

Electricity ran through her veins, a pulsating live wire making her certain she had just lost the first round.