Page 29 of The Muse
“I didn’t either.”
She moves slightly and relaxes her hold on my belt as I spin us in a circle. "You just risked it?”
“That's the point of his piece. See if the journey, the happiness found and then death, will make you leap for a new beginning.”
“Oh.” Maybe she didn’t get it as much as I thought she did. “Art is weird.”
I chuckle and keep going, carefully keeping us in a straight line until we finally reach the other side. “You could say that, but it made you think, and that’s the whole reason for art. Think, feel, analyse what that means to you.”
Having nearly reached dry ground, I drop her slowly through my arms to dunk her feet into the water. “The water here signifies liberation and soul cleansing. It's important to feel it.” She giggles as I wash the dirt and grime off her feet, both her hands on my shoulders until I rise back up and kiss her briefly.
“Ready to help me with that review before we go eat somewhere?”
She walks onto the grass and looks back at the island. “I wouldn’t even know where to begin. How do you even categorise something like that?”
“You start by thanking the artist for the experience,” I reply gruffly, watching as Shaun saunters towards us with our shoes. “Be nice if you like. I won’t be.”
“You didn’t like it?”
“I enjoyed everything about it, including you in it. But he doesn’t need to know that until the review gets printed. I wouldn't want to ruin my reputation of being a bastard.”
She beams and then looks over at Shaun. “You’re such a rogue, Scott Foxton,” she whispers. “Completely horrid.” She doesn’t know the half of it.
Chapter Twelve
PERSEPHONE
It’s been two days since our last date.
A date. Because the first dinner wasn’t really planned. The trip to the park was certainly planned. And, once again, Scott Foxton has reduced me to a girly wreck.
We’ve texted a little, but he hasn’t asked me out again. And I’m running to my phone every time it vibrates to see if it’s him. But however giddy he’s made me, when I’m out of his presence, the conflict around what I’m doing swells inside of me. I’m frightened that if I continue to see Scott, my feelings for him will only grow. Because I’d be foolish not to see what’s started between us, at least on my side. He is a revelation of sorts. And I’m not ready for that to come crashing down around me just yet. It’s my life, and if leaving the ballet taught me anything, it’s to fight for what you want.
Scott Foxton is who I want. If this leads anywhere, I’m not yet certain, but I refuse to let the guilt of my family dictate that to me. Not yet, anyway.
Meet me at 1. I’ll send you the address.
Any clue?
Wear flat shoes.
I beam at his text. It's like I don’t know who this girl is inside me. One minute I'm feeling the weight of my family because of my actions, and in the next breath, I'm making further plans with the enemy. I don’t care because Scott makes me smile.
We had such a wonderful time the other day. He was charming, in a rude and abrupt way, but I’m starting to see that that’s what he's really like. Honestly charming. Odd, and with a mouth that constantly makes me blush, but yes … charming. Maybe it's just his age versus mine, the differences between us. Or maybe that's how real men behave. God knows I don't have that much experience with them. Whatever it is, I feel alive and happy when I'm with him. Nervous and sexy. On edge, but in such a good way. Anticipation wraps me up and keeps me on the edge of excitement that’s positively addictive. Just like Scott.
Being at home is becoming more and more unbearable. It’s only been a few days, but my room is my hiding place. That, and the studio. I call down to the kitchen and Sophie delivers a late breakfast. However, all I want is to go back to that place that Scott took us and taste all that deliciousness again. Maybe we’re going there for lunch later?
I whittle away the time choosing a hundred different outfits before settling on a final choice. It isn’t the time of year for Ugg boots, so I go with the softest, most supportive shoes in my wardrobe. They're not very pretty, but I hope that Scott won’t spend too much time looking at my feet. Although, his comment about my feet being the backbone of my life has made me reconsider the annoyance I usually direct at my assets. They, as Scott says, do allow me to do what I do.
Ordering another Uber—there’s no way I want Geoffrey to report back to my father where I’m going—I tap in the address that Scott sent not too long ago. It's in Trafalgar Square. Maybe he wants to do some touristy thing? It doesn’t matter.
Butterflies begin to swarm in my stomach as the time draws closer to seeing him again, and my mood instantly lifts. The smile that was so natural this morning is back, and it makes me feel like I'm floating on air.
I skip down the stairs and reach for the door.
“Where are you off to?” My father’s voice rings around the entrance hall.
“Just out. To meet a friend in town.” I don’t look him in the eye as I respond. And I can only hope my answer is as carefree and light-hearted as I tried for.
