Chapter 16
AM I A FRENCH GIRL NOW?
HARLEY
My suit is heavy in its garment bag, hanging over my arm as I press a finger to Alice’s doorbell.
The modern ding is sharp, cutting through the air with a no-nonsense attitude, which seems at odds with the house.
The old Victorian, with its ornate white trim and eggshell blue exterior, would be better suited for something much less sensical.
The door swings open, and Alice’s blonde curls fill the threshold.
They’re pulled away from her face, tied off with a blue bandana that matches her tank top.
She prefers that color: blue. She’s always wearing it, though the shade differs day to day.
Sometimes it’s light, matching her eyes, or dark, like midnight, but it always makes her skin glow.
“Welcome to my humble abode.” Alice mocks a curtsy, waving her arm out for me to enter. “Or rather, my grandmother’s. I haven’t quite made it mine yet.”
I’m hit with the musk of old house as I step over the welcome mat. It’s that heady mix of sun-bleached paper, damp wood, and potpourri.
Alice shuts the door behind me, and the click of her turning the deadbolt raises the hair on my neck. I shift from foot to foot, waiting for her to lead me through the house.
“Everything okay?” she asks, peering up at me. Suddenly, Alice looks so tiny. It can’t possibly be more than an inch or two difference without her shoes, but something about her being barefoot has me feeling like a giant looming over her.
To be fair, I am eight inches taller.
“Yeah,” I say, my voice cracking. I clear my throat and try again. “Yep. All good here. Do you want me to take my shoes off?”
A twinkle of mischief sparkles in her crystalline eyes; they always glisten when she’s about to tease me, and I hold my breath with anticipation.
Banter is my favorite kind of foreplay; the tension of words volleying back and forth, the subtle power play.
It makes my blood pump something fierce.
But Alice’s is different than Jessa’s. Where Jessa is ruthless and sharp in her ministrations, Alice is playful, tentative, and exploratory.
She doesn’t dominate our interactions, she guides them. It’s new, but pleasant, territory.
“I don’t have a preference,” Alice replies. I toe off my oxfords and kick them underneath the empty coat rack as Alice hops up the staircase. “C’mon. We’re going to be up in my studio.”
“Studio sounds fancy,” I say, following. The stairs creak under my weight.
“I say studio as a loose term, even though this is the closest I’ve gotten to a real one,” Alice explains.
I run my fingers over the floral wallpaper as we climb.
“Since we used to move to a new duty station every two years, I’d end up taking over the second bedroom in whatever apartment we’d rent.
It was pretty bare bones. But Nana lived here a long time, and was an art hobbyist, so she left me an awesome set up. ”
“Is she why you got into painting?” I ask as we crest the landing and head down the hall.
“She taught me when I would come to visit. But I didn’t consider doing it as a career until I was in high school.” Alice pushes open a wooden door, hinges squeaking. “Here we are.”
“Wow,” I say, slack jawed as I take in the room. “Definitely worthy of the studio label.”
“Right?” Alice’s twinkling laugh rings out.
She passes me, stopping at a large sewing table in the center of the room to fiddle with a sketch pad.
The table is similar to the ones in the back of Ori’s shop, topped with pattern lines and ruler markings that make no sense to me.
The base holds a series of thin drawers with labels scrawled in cursive, and beyond that is a smaller desk with a sewing machine pushed against the wall.
A rack of thread is mounted above it, and stacks of drawers line the empty space on either side.
“Do you also know how to sew?” I ask.
“If I did, don’t you think I’d have done my own alterations for the gala?” Alice teases.
“Oh, yeah. Oops.”
“Unfortunately, that part of crafting did not come naturally to me, even with my grandma’s guidance,” Alice grumbles, mechanically ripping pages from the sketchbook.
The rhythmic tear of the paper from the spiral coil pings though the air.
“Would have saved me the annoyance of interacting with that asshole of a roommate you guys have. You sure he’s a prince?
I thought they were supposed to be cordial. ”
“Yeah…” I sigh, scratching at my neck. Ori is… complicated. And even I can’t predict when his moods will shift from caring to coarse, or vice versa.
I meander deeper into the room. All alone, set before open windows, is an easel with a large, blank canvas sitting on it.
A glass palette sits on a table along with jars of brushes and different liquids, a faint chemical pine smell wafting from them.
There are studio lights too, plugged into the wall, but they’re tucked in the corner.
“This is bigger than I thought it would be,” I say, eyeing the canvas. “You’re really going to paint me on this?”
“Yep,” she chirps, though it’s muffled around a piece of paper she’s tucked between her lips.
I swallow the giddy lump that forms in my throat. When I said I was honored she wanted to paint me—us—I meant it.
I’ve always been a wallflower, looked over in favor of others. I’m not like Ori, whose masculinity seeps into his every breath. He’s a warrior and a prince, and even when he’s only this town’s tailor, he breaks perception.
Nor am I as enticingly beautiful as Jessa. She’s a siren, luring people into her vicinity with a few words and a ringing laugh. Back in Arcadia, she was on the path to becoming a beloved and charming knight for the royal family.
But I am… me. Awkward. Nervous. Always stuck in a book. Useful for strategy, not execution. Not a warrior. Not a shifter with a formidable beast. Not a predator.
Prey.
Only Ori and Jessa have seen me as worthy of something more.
But Alice thinks I’m worthy of being painted? Of being gazed upon with the intention of reverence and provocation? Of being turned into art?
She’s gifting me the veneration of a lover—and she doesn’t even love me.
I think I fell in love with her a long time ago. When I saw her sleeping under that tree in the Meadow, my eight-year-old self said yep, you have a crush.
I was devastated when we lost her. We all were.
And when I saw her again—when I scented the vanilla sugar sweetness wafting from her pulse point and heard her name fall from those plump pink lips—those feelings came crashing back with unnatural force. They’ve only grown in the weeks since, as we’ve gotten to know who she’s become.
“Most people are surprised by how big original pieces are compared to the prints we sell online. But scaling up is how we can pack in more detail,” Alice continues, pulling me from my thoughts.
She floats by me to tape two sketches to the bottom of the easel, then grabs tubes of paint from a drawer underneath her palette.
“I need you in your suit,” she adds as she fiddles with her paints, blobbing colors onto the glass. I lay my garment bag over the table and start undressing. “Then I’ll position you and set the lights,” she continues. “The bathroom is down the hall—oh jeez!”
Alice drops the tube of paint she’s holding, and I freeze with my pants around my ankles.
“What?” I ask.
She quickly bends to pick up the tube and promptly turns around, waving a hand over her shoulder. “Nothing! I wasn’t expecting you to strip in here. Proceed.”
My lips pinch together at her modesty, and I continue swapping out my regular work slacks for my suit pants.
“You’ve seen me in a bathing suit. What’s the difference between that and boxers?” I ask.
“Other than the fact that your boxers are green plaid and the bathing suit you wear the most often is the brightest fucking fire-truck red?” Alice mutters.
She mindlessly plays with her jar of brushes; her fingers twitch over the bristles in a repetitive motion, as if the action calms her. “I guess nothing.”
My stomach flips at the prospect that I might make her as nervous as she makes me.
I finish buttoning my suit and snag the tie from its garment bag pocket, then approach Alice.
“Can you help with the tie?” I ask. “I suck at it.”
“Hm?” Alice hums, glancing up from her brushes. “Oh, sure.”
She rounds the easel, and I hand her the fabric. She has to reach up on her tiptoes to hook the tie around my neck, and it brings her body near flush with mine.
“How many pieces do you need to make?” I ask, distractedly, as she deftly knots the fabric around my collar. Tingles erupt on my skin at the occasional brush of her fingers on my chest.
“It’s my choice. Usually, I have anywhere from ten to twenty,” she answers. “But I imagine I’ll be rushing to get ten done before my deadline in August.”
“Will they all be of me?” I tease.
“Maybe.”
“Wait, really?” I blanch.
Alice shrugs, tightening the knot around my neck with finality.
“It’s entirely possible I paint you ten times and call it a day,” Alice says, so casually. Does she not realize how that sends me into a tailspin of awe? She pats my chest twice, right over my heart. “All set. Now hold still. I’m going to pose you like my own personal mannequin.”
She pushes me back a step, delicate hands wrapped around my shoulders, until I’m centered in the empty space beyond her easel.
I bite my lip to hold back my laughter as Alice hops away, stares at me with her tongue poking her cheek, head tilted, and then hops back, adjusting me again.
My arms are lifted into a traditional dance stance.
My feet are scooted apart, then back together, then apart again.
I’m angled towards the widow, and then away from it.
It’s cute, watching her figure it out. I wonder what she sees when she looks at me—why does an inch to the right or left makes a difference to her brain?