"It's not flattery if it's true," Sophia insisted, emboldened by his reaction. "Your features have this classical proportion that's hard to find. Very Renaissance."
"Renaissance," James repeated, looking both embarrassed and pleased. "I've never been compared to a Michelangelo before."
"More Caravaggio," Sophia corrected. "Those strong contrasts. Light and shadow."
James glanced at his watch—a subtle but quality timepiece that Sophia suspected cost more than all her furniture combined. "That's really kind, but I should probably get going. Early start tomorrow."
"Right, the gym," Sophia nodded, trying to hide her disappointment. "Think about the modeling offer. No pressure."
"I will," James agreed, finishing his wine and standing up. He moved with an unconscious grace that made Sophia's artist's fingers itch for a pencil. "Thank you for the wine. And the conversation. I needed that more than I realized."
"Anytime," Sophia said, meaning it more than she should. "My door is always open. Metaphorically. Not literally. That would be a security risk."
James smiled at her rambling, and Sophia fought the urge to smack herself in the forehead. Why did she always babble around him?
She walked him to the door, suddenly conscious of her paint-stained overalls and bare feet beside his impeccable suit and shined shoes. They were a study in contrasts—the disheveled artist and the perfectly composed corporate professional. A pairing that shouldn't work but somehow did, at least in her imagination.
As Sophia opened the door for him, the elevator at the end of the hall dinged, and Mrs. Patel from 7C emerged, her arms full of grocery bags. The elderly woman's face lit up at the sight of them standing in the doorway together.
"James! Sophia! How lovely to see you both," she called, approaching with a broad smile. "You make such a handsome couple."
Sophia felt heat rush to her face, while James immediately stepped back, putting a careful distance between them.
"Oh, we're not—" he began.
"—just neighbors," Sophia finished, trying to ignore the stab of disappointment at how quickly he'd denied any connection.
Mrs. Patel looked between them, confusion briefly crossing her face before understanding dawned. "Ah, I see. Well, you would make a very nice couple. Both so attractive and kind."
An awkward silence settled over the hallway until James cleared his throat. "Let me help you with those bags, Mrs. Patel."
"Such a gentleman," the older woman beamed, allowing James to take the heaviest bags. "Your mother raised you well."
James's smile tightened almost imperceptibly—a reaction so subtle that Sophia might have missed it if she hadn't been studying his face so intently. "I'll carry these to your door," he said, smoothly changing the subject.
"Thank you, dear," Mrs. Patel said, then turned to Sophia with a stage whisper that carried clearly down the hall. "If you don't snatch him up, someone else will. Men like that don't stay single long."
With that parting wisdom, she followed James down the hall, leaving Sophia standing in her doorway, equal parts mortified and amused.
A few minutes later, James returned, passing her door with a slightly embarrassed smile. "Sorry about that," he said. "Mrs. Patel has been trying to set me up with every woman in the building under forty since I moved in."
"No need to apologize," Sophia replied, trying to sound casual. "She means well."
"She does," James agreed. "Anyway, thanks again for the wine. Have a good weekend."
"You too," Sophia said. "Don't work too hard."
James gave her a final smile before disappearing into his apartment, the door closing with a soft click behind him.
Sophia lingered in her doorway for a moment before returning to her own space, replaying their interaction in her mind. James Mitchell was an enigma—approachable yet distant, attentive yet aloof. Everything about him, from his meticulously maintained appearance to his careful choice of words, suggested a man who valued control and precision.
And yet there was something beneath that polished exterior—glimpses of passion, humor, and vulnerability that made her wonder what he would be like if he ever truly let his guard down.
Sophia returned to her abandoned canvas, but her focus had shifted. Instead of the abstract corporate piece she was supposed to be working on, her mind kept conjuring images of James—the subtle expressions that crossed his face when he thought no one was looking, the careful way he held himself, as if constantly aware of the space he occupied.
It was absurd, really. Here she was, pining after a man who seemed to devote his entire life to his career. A man who maintained his appearance with the same meticulous attention he gave to everything else in his life—not out of vanity but as if it were simply another aspect of his professional persona.
That was the thing about James Mitchell that fascinated her most. He moved through the world looking like he'd stepped out of a men's fashion magazine, yet seemed completely oblivious to the effect he had on women. Or perhaps not oblivious, but deliberately indifferent. As if his striking appearance was merely a tool—like his perfect manners or his remarkable memory—rather than something to take pleasure in.
Sophia wondered what he was like beneath all that careful control. What would it take to make James Mitchell truly let go? To see him disheveled, passionate, fully present in a moment rather than always thinking three steps ahead?
Setting down her paintbrush, Sophia walked to the window, staring out at the city lights beginning to twinkle in the gathering dusk. James Mitchell was right across the hall—so close she could knock on his door in seconds, yet emotionally distant in ways she couldn't bridge.
Not yet, anyway.
Sophia Reyes wasn't one to back down from a challenge. If James was worth wanting—and God, was he—then he was worth pursuing. Not aggressively, not desperately, but with the same patient attention to detail she brought to her canvases.
She would find a way past his carefully constructed defenses. She would capture him first with her artist's eye—if he agreed to model for her—and then, perhaps, she would discover what truly drove a man who seemed so perfect on the surface yet so carefully guarded underneath.
The idea of the portrait series hadn't been entirely spontaneous. Sophia had been considering it for weeks, but never found the courage to ask. Now that she had, she could already envision the paintings—James in different lights, different moods. Professional James in his perfect suit. Casual James, perhaps after a workout. Maybe even, if she was very lucky, unguarded James—the man beneath the polished exterior.
With newfound determination, she returned to her canvas. She had plans to make, strategies to consider. James might be oblivious now, but Sophia was beginning to think that was by choice rather than nature. No man that perceptive could truly be unaware of the effect he had on women.
Which meant there was hope. And for now, that was enough to make her smile as she picked up her paintbrush, already composing her next move in the delicate art of capturing James Mitchell's attention.