Page 73 of The Paris Roommates: Dean
Pausing, she wound her arms around him again at the waist, the tote resting against his back. “Yes, but I want to be clear about something. I’m doing this because I really care about you. Not in any way as a thank you for helping me with the cave.”
He sucked in a breath. “I hadn’t thought that.” Should he? Women had used him before. But wasn’t it significant that he hadn’t wondered?
“I’m glad.”
Blowing out an exaggerated breath, he laughed. “Me too! I mean, you just said you really care about me, as I do you. I figured this was the next step.”
She leaned up on her tiptoes and kissed him sweetly before adding a punch of heat. “It is,chéri.”
The endearment couldn’t have been more timely. Again, she took his hand, and they started walking. He gripped her hand, loving the way they walked in time. In sync.
Everything was coming together for them.
CHAPTERNINETEEN
Sawyer studied his painting so far.
The female figures seemed to be breathing real life at last in their apricot, gold, and cream dresses—three friends out for dinner. He would go to his grave before he’d admit that he’d gotten the idea the other night at dinner when Thea, Madison, and Brooke had been laughing together while eating pizza. Something had clicked inside him, and he’d gone with it despite feeling weird about immortalizing his friends without their express permission. Truthfully, he hadn’t had a choice. His muse had him by the balls.
But his muse had gotten it right. He loved his friends, and he supposed his favorite art teacher had been right about it being easier to paint something you love. The results were before him. The women looked conspiratorial and connected. Their dining companions were elsewhere in the restaurant, less important than their titillating conversation.
The scene was fromLe Belle Époque,after all, the beautiful time as it was called, and there was so much to talk about at a place like Nanine’s. If Thea, Brooke, and Madison had lived then, they would have asked each other all sorts of questions. What kind of baubles had they bought from Fouquet jewelry shop? What had they thought of that new painter’s work no one seemed to like—what was his name? Monet? Had they enjoyed their recent reading of Victor Hugo’s latest novel everyone was raving about?
Of course, Nanine’s hadn’t existed then and neither had his friends, but if they had,thiswould have been the scene. God, how he wished he could have lived back then. That era had been a philosopher’s dream, where ideas were the currency of conversation. Now people only wanted to talk about sports, hobbies, and weekend plans. He was living in a time of philistines!
“Dean didn’t come home last night,” he heard Kyle’s voice from the doorway.
He jolted at the interruption, nearly dropping his paintbrush, putting his body in front of the painting to block it. He glanced over his shoulder. “Dean’s over eighteen.”
“Barely.” Kyle rolled his eyes. Then his eagle eyes shifted to the painting. “Hey, this one is totally the shit. Tell me you’re happy with it.”
His stomach seized up, and he could hear his mother’s voice suddenly in his head.Art isn’t about happiness, Sawyer. It’s about excellence. Does this look excellent to you?He’d been six years old and very proud of the paper plate he’d decorated for an art project. He’d bypassed the glue and the glitter and used markers to create an entire scene of animals in a zoo. He’d loved it—and so had his teacher and the entire class.
Mrs. Allen had told him he should be so happy with what he’d drawn and suggested that he put it on the refrigerator as a surprise for his parents when he got home. His mother had taken it off the fridge and handed it back to him, waiting for his analysis, which he’d fumbled through before figuring out what she wanted him to say—the animals would have looked better if portrayed more seriously. Not like the happy animals he secretly loved to watch on TV when his nanny wasn’t paying attention.
“Forget I asked,” Kyle said, crossing and gripping his shoulder, forcibly but gently turning him away from the painting. “Come on. I’m not waiting for Dean today. I have a plan, and I’m sticking with it. Change out of your paint clothes. We’re going out. All of us.”
“Thea isn’t here yet,” Sawyer told him, breathing shallowly to hide his sudden tension. “And Madison probably won’t be up.”
Kyle checked his watch. “She’ll be up. If not, wake her.”
Just the thought made his balls shrivel. “Why do I have to wake her?”
“Because it’s really not a good idea for me to be anywhere near Madison’s bed, especially with her in it.”
Comprehension dawned. The human condition was downright predictable, if you asked him. Every action had a cause and effect. “I wondered. You mean after kissing her, you want to jump her?”
“Jesus!” Kyle headed to the stairway with a growl. “Never, ever say that out loud, because it makes me crazier than I already am. Now get going. We have somewhere to be.”
Shit. And here he’d been content only moments before, a rarity for him. “Fine! But text Dean or he’ll be mad.”
“I’ll text him and Thea and hope they show up in time.”
With that, he was gone from sight, his footsteps treading down the stairwell. Sawyer changed quickly and then headed down to the Girls’ Floor.
The loud rumble of the hair dryer came from the single bathroom. That would be Brooke. He thought about rapping on the door to ask for help waking Madison, but somehow interrupting Brooke doing her hair felt more daunting.
He knocked on Madison’s door, clenching his eyes shut. God, he hoped she didn’t keep a mini-cleaver under her pillow.
