Chapter 11
CHAPTER
ELEVEN
After his talk with Kyle last night, Sawyer was grateful for the feeling of infatuation he was riding.
Until he looked up the etymology of the word, something he was wont to do. It took his mood down, learning it was from the past participle stem of Latin infatuare, meaning to make a fool of.
He decided being hit with Cupid’s arrow was a better description, after all. So he went down a different rabbit hole, reading academic opinions on the myth, and was delighted to discover how many agreed it was about love’s ability to bring joy. That was a bandwagon he could climb on.
He was hoping for such joy for himself.
And for Madison and Kyle.
Neither were around when he came downstairs the next evening. Perhaps they were seeking separate corners after the charged encounter last night. Sawyer felt for them. He’d meant every word he’d said to Kyle, but he had a date to get to, and at the moment his focus was fully on Phoebe.
Letting himself out of the house, he took a cab to their rendezvous point at Librairie Madame Giveny, one of his favorite bookshops for rare books.
Of course, they’d texted about that too while continuing to volley quotes back and forth that had his heart dancing around like his paintbrush on canvas.
She was waiting for him in her aqua coat, like she had their first date.
He wondered if it was a British compulsion of hers to be early.
Tonight he would discover more about this woman who had captivated his heart and vision, but before he lost his nerve, he walked right up to her and kissed her on both cheeks Parisian style. “God, you’re so freaking beautiful."
Her husky, “Bonjour to you too, Sawyer,” shot him full of lust and delight, as did the musky floral scent of her perfume.
His head spun. “No wonder you’ve become my muse,” he blurted out before slapping a hand over his mouth.
Her eyes widened before dancing playfully. “Your muse, huh? Do tell me more…”
That light-headed feeling was back. Maybe it was her perfume—and her beauty—and oh boy, he was so into her. “Did I say Bonjour?” Suddenly he couldn’t remember. “Ah…since our first date, I’ve painted two large paintings of you. I hope that’s all right.”
She touched his cheek, laughing. “All right? Being immortalized is so my schtick. Do you need me to sit for you? Oh! Is one of them a nude? Because if it is, you probably should make sure it’s true to life. I’m against false advertising.”
His cheeks heated as he sputtered out a laugh. Sure, he’d drawn live models, but somehow it was different with her. He knew her. Wanted her. And yeah, he’d thought about her naked. “How did I know you’d respond that way?”
“Are you blushing, Dr. Jackson?” She took him by the shoulders, her green eyes dancing. “Surely you’ve had live models.”
“Of course I have.” He tried to give her a stern look worthy of Brooke while not answering directly. “I love nudes, although I haven’t painted one.”
She took his arm and led him into the bookshop, whispering, “We could start tonight. After dinner. I’m freshly shaved—”
“Phoebe Anderson!” He had to rein in the wild lust coursing through him now as images flashed through his head. “You are what some would call shameless—a daring flirt—and I’m completely delighted.”
They stopped at a glass display showcasing old astronomy books with bold script and color ink drawings.
“I’m glad you think so.” Her wink was pure mischief.
“You know, my mother is so very proper now, but when she was a young woman, she was a regular on the party scene of artists in London, Paris, and New York. That’s where she and my father met.
He even painted her nude—which she burned when she filed for divorce, saying she refused to allow my father’s interpretation of her body to live on past their marriage.
He threatened to sue her for the destruction of private property.
It was a nightmare. I personally thought she was short-sighted. ”
He closed his mouth after a moment. “I don’t know what’s more shocking. That she burned a great work of art by River Kennison or that you knew about all of this as a kid.”
She laid the back of her hand to her forehead. “My therapist tells me I’ll survive having seen nude portraits of my mother as a child. I’m joking. Mostly. My parents think therapy is a necessary tool to delve into one’s inner psyche.”
“My mother has that horrible belief about therapy being bad for your reputation. I think it might have helped me.”
“Maybe. Depends on the therapist and a whole bunch of other things I won’t delve into.
For me, all I did every week from the time I was six until I was eighteen was talk about my feelings, especially what made me feel bad or scared.
Even when I didn’t have anything to report, I was expected to.
There were things lurking in my subconscious.
I realized at a young age it was making me neurotic.
Because when you go to therapy, you learn words like that. ”
He realized his heart was bleeding—right there inside the bookstore—for the girl she’d been.
“Oh, don’t look that way.” She brightened up an assuring smile. “It was great practice for learning how to convince people about what I didn’t really feel, my parents included. Because there was no way I was trusting them with that.”
He took her hand and pressed it to his chest. “I get that. I don’t want you to feel you have to do that with me. I like who you are.”
He watched her face ripple with shock before she leaned against him, all earthy smiles and spicy-scented woman.
“I believe you. Which only makes me like you more. Did you know many artists are absolute liars? Oh, the stories I could tell. Let’s change the subject, though, and get back to these gorgeous astronomy books. Do you have a favorite planet?”
“Doesn’t everyone?” he asked, making her chuckle. “Saturn. Because it has the most rings.”
She pointed to the display case. “Mine isn’t depicted here since it was discovered in 1930.”
“Pluto.”
“Very good, Dr. Jackson. I love it because it holds the best story. It was a serious planet, one of the Big Nine, for a hot minute until they downgraded it to a dwarf, like they’d gone all Tolkien in astronomy circles.
And why? Because it was smaller than the other ones.
Of course, they say it was because of its orbit, but I don’t believe that’s the main reason.
Never say astronomers aren’t bitten by the male fascination with size.
I mean, really. Now I wonder. Does it have an image problem?
Feel like it’s not as good as Jupiter or Mars. I wonder about these things.”
“Planet shaming should be a crime,” he said, loving when he made her laugh that husky laugh of hers. “How about a quote for the day?”
She rubbed her gloved hands together in delight. “Yes! Lay it on me.”
“She's beautiful, and therefore to be wooed.”
Pretending to faint, she gave another husky laugh. “Henry VI. But the rest is pure troglodyte rubbish after that line. She is a woman, therefore to be won. Please! Won. Like I’m a lottery ticket.”
He could have run with that metaphor. People wanted to win the lottery. But he didn’t think she’d appreciate that line of thinking. “Is this where I ask you what your favorite Shakespeare play is?”
“I knew you were going to ask! I could never choose. Even if someone threatened to take off my fingernails in torture.”
“Ugh! Did you have to go there?”
“I saw a book on the shelf about an old exploration and got inspired. But to answer your question, I have my I will take these to a deserted island favorites, of course.”
“Nice way to put it.”
She leaned into him again, the scent of her perfume making his head spin in the best way.
“If you’re a good professor, I’ll tell you a few as we browse the aisles.
Maybe we’ll even find a few in here, all musty and well loved.
God, I do adore that you picked a rare bookshop for our second date, Dr. Jackson.
I wonder what you’ll pick for our third.
Or should we alternate and have next time be my choice? ”
She was practically dancing in excitement in the small aisle so how could he respond other than with: “Your turn. Of course.”
“Wonderful! I will make sure to spend two days thinking about it like you did this last time.”
“Hey! Like I told you, I wanted to text you right away, but then I got to painting. I pretty much didn’t eat or sleep. My friends had to bring takeout to my door after my snacks ran out.”
She gave a playful shiver. “If we didn’t have a rule about work talk, I would pounce on you and ask what you painted.
Except you already said me, which only makes me more curious.
Come, let’s browse books, before I lose all reason and drag you to the nearest café and try and pry it out of you over Pastis. ”
He laughed as he followed in her wake through the stacks.
They shared their favorites on display. Beyond Shakespeare, she surprised him by being a fan of Alexandre Dumas, especially Camille, which he also considered a brilliant, yet heartbreaking, love story.
She jostled him playfully when he confessed to loving The Three Musketeers, also by Dumas.
But she didn’t like Albert Camus and The Stranger.
Nor was she a fan of Jean-Paul Sartre. He told her he wouldn’t hold it against her, which only made her kiss his cheek playfully.
When she selected a book of botany with colored flower drawings from the 1700s, he insisted on buying it. Her eyes narrowed as she told him it was too much. He only shrugged, saying, “A good book as a gift is never too much, especially when you love them as much as I do.”
She put her hand on his shoulder and kissed his cheek, leaving it there as she said softly in his ear, “It’s only because I agree with you that I’ll consent, but that means I’m buying dinner. I feel very strongly about pulling my weight, Sawyer.”
When she straightened, her green eyes were direct.
He regarded her with equal frankness, standing there with her wild red hair, treasures of old books behind her.
They were defining their relationship already, and for him, she might as well have been a dream conjured up by his imagination.
“I honor women being what they need to be. Dinner’s all yours. ”
She linked her arm through his when they left the bookstore, swinging her gift bag in the other hand.
They browsed the other bookstores in Saint-Germain.
By the end of it, he was giddy from being with her and being in those most-loved places with her, roving over classics on the sometimes dusty bookshelves.
The proper ambience, if you asked him. Too much pine-scented wood polish always seemed to lessen the magic in a bookshop.
But a book’s ultimate magic could never be silenced, he knew, and as they flew through the aisles on a shared high from their love of literature and reading, he discovered another truth he’d been missing his whole life.
Phoebe Anderson held the same magic for him as a precious book.