Page 11 of Brooke
“Which your articles do very well, I might add.” Again, a flicker of a killer smile, one that made her heart dance. Because it was still clearly enjoying playing with matches…
She nodded crisply, trying to steel herself. It made sense that he’d read up on her. She had done the same on him. “Thank you. Not to toot my own horn, but I rose quickly as a fashion writer. Speaking French fluently and knowing Paris gave me an advantage.”
“Language does matter, doesn’t it?” He gave a rueful smile. “I hear complaints from the Norwegian furnituremakers I work with about interested parties not even attempting to learn simple Norwegian words or customs.”
She tucked that little detail away. “Exactly. Because I can communicate with people more thoroughly, I’m able to go beyond a discussion of their new fashion line and learn about their artistic inspiration.”
“And then you went even further, I think,” he mused, stroking his chin. “You write about what a particular piece feels like against one’s body. How it drapes. Where the material is from and who made it. How it makes you feel. I found these details very compelling, as I also think about such things—but with interiors.”
Their connection was suddenly a tangible force, and her heart raced with excitement. “I suppose I was interested in something other fashion writers weren’t. It interests me how designers select fabrics that tantalize the senses. They are chosen to make one feel sensual, special, confident.”
“Human beings are sensory organisms first and foremost,” he added, a thoughtful expression on his face. “I doubt I will ever read about Brooke Adams waxing poetic about draping a model in a garbage bag of plastic and calling it couture.”
She laughed. “Just the thought makes me shudder. Well, I hope that answered your original question.”
He kept his gaze locked on her face. “Beautifully. Thank you for sharing it with me.”
God, he was easy to talk to. She’d worried he wouldn’t be because so many of the writers who’d interviewed him had spoken of his stoicism. But he didn’t seem overly reserved or taciturn—more like the kind of person who didn’t speak unless he had something to say. Of course, creative types could zing from one emotion to another. But so far, she was heartened…and way too intrigued.
“Kyle tells me you’re interested in expanding as well,” shesaid, “creating an interior decorating fashion line. I have some ideas.”
“I am eager to hear them, Brooke, when the time is right. Now.” He gestured for her to precede him as they reached the third staircase to Sawyer’satelier. “After you.”
Again, they walked sedately, and she took the opportunity to calm her racing heart with even breaths. When she went to open the door to Sawyer’s studio, she almost swore when apricot-colored oil paint rubbed on her fingertips from the doorknob. “Well, clearly you know whose space this is.”
His eyes danced as he pulled out a fresh linen handkerchief and handed it to her. “I suspected. Plus, I could smell the mineral spirits halfway up the stairs.”
Right. “Yes, the fumes. We remind him to leave a window open, but he’s sometimes so lost in his own world he forgets to eat. I can’t take your handkerchief, Axel. I’ll get paint on it.”
“I believe that is a handkerchief’s purpose. It might feel slighted if you don’t use it.”
All right, that was funny. “Do you often anthropomorphize handkerchiefs?” she joked.
“Every Wednesday, yes,” he said without missing a beat. “Since you refuse to use it, then I must join you in soiling my hands.”
Before she could stop him, he was turning the doorknob and walking inside. Axel halted in front of her as if spellbound. “My God! But he’s brilliant.”
Her heart stopped playing with the matches and threw its proverbial hands up in the air, giving a wild cheer. “Yes, he is, and we tell him every chance we can. Sawyer still doesn’t see it.”
“But he must!” Axel stalked to a painting Nanine had commissioned for her restaurant. “The depth of emotion in his work is palpable. These women… I can see them. Feel them. Their friendship. Their love for each other. How they laugh together. How they hold themselves. Ah! But they are you, Madison, and Thea!”
She swallowed thickly as she eyed the painting. Three friends going out to dinner in swirls of cream, gold, and apricot. “Yes. DuringLe Belle Époque. It will hang in Nanine’s restaurant when it’s finally dry.”
They were all praying Sawyer wouldn’t change his mind before the opening and say it wasn’t good enough. No one wanted to see that kind of heartbreak.
Axel swung around, the light from the studio windows overhead illuminating the white-blond highlights in his hair. “You are beautiful in apricot, Brooke. You should wear it often.”
Her pulse skipped, like her heart had struck another match inside her. He was watching her so intently suddenly. Her mind swirled like colors on a paint palette.
He’d just called her beautiful! In apricot! Did he really think she was beautiful? Or only in that color? Oh God, she was overthinking everything.
Since Adam had cheated on her with a pouty model she hadn’t felt very special. Sexy? That had always been a stretch. Beautiful...
To her, that word had always belonged in a category of its own, for women with effortless elegance like Nanine.
Brooke was currently on the farm team, simply trying to look confident and professional while she wished for more. Okay, here was another rare area of vulnerability he’d touched upon. Were they all coming out to play today?
She noticed he was still looking at her in that powerful, silent way of his. She bit her lip. Whatwashe thinking?
