The Man In The Painting

By IJ Sarlon

"The people I work with don’t need to fantasize about men they see in paintings—they have real people to fall in love with. They have real lives."

Izzy, a witty conservator, works in the basement of the museum making sure all of the artwork is taken care of. It's lonely work for a lonely girl. One night, working late, Izzy faints... and wakes up in the land of her favorite painting. When she is greeted by Lord Cromley, the man she recognizes from this portrait, she knows her world will never be the same. The two embark on a thrilling romance.

Book one of The Man in the Painting starts their story. Stay tuned for the next works in the series.

• Language: English
• Publisher: IJ Sarlon
• Release date: Dec 17, 2018
• ISBN: 9781370827749

IJ Sarlon

IJ Sarlon writes books of romance to give you a slight thrill, and fill you with thoughts of hope and luxury.

Book preview

THE MAN IN THE PAINTING

BOOK ONE

BY IJ SARLON

Copyright 2018 by IJ Sarlon

- ONE -

I’d grown used to the idea that all days from here on out would be ordinary, and it seemed this Monday would be no different. Breakfast was a granola bar in the car and a cup of black coffee--the cream had spoiled, which I learned the hard way by pouring it into my first mug and watching the white clumps clot on the surface. I dumped it to the sink and started again. The radio played songs I liked, and though I knew my favorite song was coming up next, I was already late, and had to turn the radio off and make my way into the museum.

I had done all the right things: gone to high school and done alright (as far as grades were concerned-- I was certainly no homecoming queen, and had no time for boys), and I’d even gotten into the local college. It was there, walking by a painting of a foggy Irish coastline, that I fell in love with art.

I could never be an artist. On a more experimental and ambitious night I’d convinced my college roommate, Veronica, to let me draw her, and the portrait came out crooked, with one eye higher than the other. Still, I thought I could fix it, and begged her to sit just a bit longer, but alas, she had a date. I watched from the window as Brock Shelley opened the passenger door to let Veronica in. My heart broke a little when his hand found the small of her back-- would that ever be me? Could I buy a new dress, slip into lacey underthings, and be whisked away by some charming man? I tried to picture who this would be, and I couldn’t imagine anyone longing to touch me.

I turned back to the portrait, still determined to fix it. I looked in the mirror, comparing my face to Veronica’s: she was pretty, sure. Everyone knew that. But while her eyes were sparkling, narrow almond shapes, mine were big and round, like a doll’s. Her teeth were white and straight, but a small mouth hid them. My lips were full, like my breasts and hips: when we stood side-by-side, I looked like the mother that might have birthed Veronica; and Veronica looked like a little boy.

I erased so hard that a tiny hole formed on the page, and I scolded myself for ruining it. When I set it down on the desk, it landed on an envelope, and that’s when I saw it: I could patch it with another small piece of paper. I worked for hours to fix the hole, and continued to fix the drawing until the fixed hole wasn’t as noticeable. And that’s when I decided to do what I do now: care for art.

I rush into the Museum, carrying my mug of black coffee, and call a greeting to the front desk girl before swiping my keycard on the freight elevator and letting the big iron doors close behind me. Almost immediately my skin responds to the chill that always lingers in the air of museums, and I fumble in my purse for my sweater. I imagine most people think Museums just don’t have enough sense to warm up the rooms a bit so people can enjoy the art without having to bundle up for an arctic exhibition, but the truth is that temperature, humidity, and light are very delicate balances when it comes to caring for art in museums. That’s what I will spend much of this day doing, like most days: checking the levels, entering data, looking at the bug traps hidden around the galleries that no one ever seems to notice. Making sure that beautiful things stay safe.

I love this job, and it’s important work. It’s such an awful thing to imagine that ancient jewelry or wood carvings would ever be destroyed or lost. Sometimes, when I pass the portraits in our galleries, I think of the love that made them: looking at someone for so long, you must have to love them a little bit, even if not at first, working so hard to capture every shadow and curve and glint of light. I like to imagine a few have fallen in love that way, sitting still in a beautiful room, looking into each