Page 22 of Sawyer
“No, this is good.” Kyle’s smile was all business now. “We didn’t plan on meeting her, but now we get to size her up in person. Because online she’s hard to read.”
“Not everyone overshares on social media, Kyle,” Madison said gruffly. “Also, Brooke, you sure know how to tell a cover story. I could have used you when I was sneaking out in high school. My old man always saw through me when he happened to be around.”
“Years of practice in fashion, darling,” she exaggerated in a posh tone. “Now, who’s talking here? She’s going to arrive any sec.”
“Kyle seems to be our chosen leader as head of The Paris Roommates Group,” Dean suggested.
“Brooke knows art better,” Kyle noted. “I defer to her.”
“If you two don’t decide,I’mtalking.” Madison set her weight. “And you know what I’m going to talk about.”
Her trusty cleaver. “Fine. I’ll do it,” Brooke said. “But let’s agree to keep this short.”
They heard an exterior door click a few yards away, and then Phoebe Anderson was walking toward them in a lime green coat with a hot pink bandeau covering her ears. Again, bold but stylish. Down to her purple Balenciaga ankle boots.
“I’m sorry we disturbed you,” Brooke said smoothly as Phoebe reached them. “You really didn’t need to come down.”
“Of course I did.” She chuckled, the sound one of profound amusement that had Brooke liking her. “Not like you were interrupting anything. I was only watchingThe Thomas Crown Affair, the Pierce Brosnan version, for the millionth time.”
“I love that movie,” Dean added, flashing a brilliant smile. “A bored billionaire and a brilliant art caper. Plus, Rene Russo! Every woman should have that see-through black dress.”
Brooke socked him. “Please forget he said that.”
“Why?” She laughed boldly. “I agree. It’s a fabulous dress. But that’s not why we’re freezing on the sidewalk. I’m Phoebe, and you’re Brooke Adams, Dean Harris, and Kyle Taylor. Chef Garcia and I have met.Enchantée.”
Everyone murmured the greeting except Madison.
Phoebe stopped in front of them. “I’ve read about you—The Paris Roommates Group. You’re a tight circle of friends beyond the biz. Something I admire. If some crazy person had stalked one of my friends—art notwithstanding—I’d be checking them out.”
Brooke nodded. “I’m glad we don’t have to pussyfoot around it. We are protective. We also do our due diligence. We’d have come here even if you hadn’t tracked Sawyer down along the Seine.”
Phoebe hunched her shoulders, her breath visible in the cold. “Can we talk inside? I’m freezing, and when I’m being interrogated, I prefer for it to happen the French way. With a drink. You did want to see inside the gallery, yes? Why waste time? I’m sure you have a long list of interested parties, and I do some of my best work at night and under pressure. Like Madison, I imagine.”
“Phoebe, you don’t want to engage with me,” Madison responded, making Brooke want to groan. “I’m no fan of stalkers. I don’t care if it was for art. As a woman, I’d think you’d know better.”
Phoebe halted in front of the gallery’s glass door. “I do, but Sawyer is a guy, not a woman. I didn’t plan on us going out. But I found him so compelling, and I honor those rare moments when you feel something unexpected for someone. Besides, if you knew how powerful it is to be liked by someone for just being yourself. You have no idea how many people, men especially, have cozied up to me hoping to get to my parents or further their art career.”
Brooke studied Phoebe as she pushed her hair back behind her shoulder. She knew bullshit when she heard it,and she didn’t hear any from Phoebe. She found herself downright sympathetic.
Dean bobbed his head. But then again, he was Mr. Kismet.
“Also,” she continued, “I appreciate your feelings about your friend, Chef, but I wasnotstalking him. I was being tenacious. Because being young and a woman who is starting her first gallery in Paris isn’t a piece of cake.”
“Don’t—”
“Phoebe, why don’t you show us the gallery?” Brooke hated interrupting Madison and shot her a grimace, but she hadn’t liked the way the conversation was headed.
Kyle pressed a soothing hand to Madison’s back, which was mostly shocking because she didn’t push him away. “We appreciate you assuring us, Phoebe.”
The woman swallowed thickly, clearly ruffled, before nodding and pulling out a set of keys. The alarm beeped when she opened the door, and they entered behind her as she flicked on the lights and crossed to the panel, punching in the code.
Brooke took a moment to glance around the studio. The space up front was small, the back wall split in the middle with an opening leading to another section of the gallery. One not visible from the street. More mysterious that way.
Brooke’s mouth parted as she eyed the eight works up front. They weren’t paintings but sketches, passion tangible in each slash of ink.
She wandered closer, entranced, noting the name scrawled boldly in the corner of the first sketch.
River Kennison.
