Page 30 of Sawyer
“I have yet to meet her, but from the portrait you painted, she must be an incredible woman.”
“There is no one better in all the world,” he simply responded.
She’d come by earlier to celebrate his new agent. He could still remember the simple press of her hand to his cheek and the look of pride on her face.
All of the heavens had been in her eyes, and he’d wanted to freeze the image in his mind and paint her like that. He’d call itA Mother’s Joybecause that’s how he’d felt, seeing her happiness and pride for him.
If only one could swap mothers…
His mother had texted him again, mentioning the Google Alert. He wished he had the courage to block her, but that seemed too dire. Guilt and as much as his duty as her first and only son had been hammered into him like he was silver plating on the altar of her mother-dom.
Besides, she’d simply text him from another number. Her office phone. A friend’s. He was her prodigy—his father’s too, he supposed—but she’d been the one to push and push and push. Any glory he achieved reflected on her. From the moment of his birth, he might as well have been a trophy for her to shine and polish and drag around. He’d succeeded at everything she’d thrown at him, with her constant battering ofIs it good enough?both making him doubt himself and fueling him on.
In high school for a brief moment, he’d thought about tanking everything to make her look bad, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. He might be a jangled combination of philosophies, but he wasn’t self-destructive. There was too much to experience and learn about in life. Piano had taught him he could be good at something while loathing it, for example.
So he only texted back a vagueI’ll let you know when I know more.
Which he didn’t plan to do, of course. Because avoidance and deflection were his only strategies.
“I’m thinking about the seven-course chef’s menu,” she admitted. “Call me old-fashioned, but I love both a cheese and dessert course. The French do have the best cheese in the world, and this is the kind of place that features ones you don’t see everywhere.”
“I love the tradition as well. Of course, a lot of places don’t even serve a salad course anymore, and I’m partial to that for personal reasons.”
She lowered her menu and studied over it, her eyes a vivid emerald against the thick white cotton paper. “Personal reasons? Oh, I have to hear this.”
He winced. “Don’t laugh, but Nanine gave each of us a nickname based on a French course. I’m the salad course. Draw your own conclusions.”
Instead of laughing, she pressed a finger to her full, rosy lips, making his heart speed up for other reasons. “Also an old French tradition. Unconventional and undervalued to some. Misunderstood. Savored by those who comprehend its place in the meal. How close am I?”
He could feel heat rise up his neck. “Pretty close. You forgot insubstantial to some.” Perhaps it wasn’t best to share he’d thought that one perfect because he didn’t feel like he was substantial. He quoted other people. He taught about other people’s paintings.
But now? Maybe he wasn’t Fourth Course anymore. Maybe he was graduating. Yes, he liked that thought!
“If I were a French course…” She tapped her lips. “I’d be dessert. Because everyone wants dessert. Even people who are worried about their health or their weight. It’s universal.”
Her laughter was infectious, as was the confidence of her choice. He was too worried about other’s opinions to be dessert. “It suits you.”
“Thank you.”
She gave him the kind of smile that entranced men to take up great challenges. Cross the ocean. Challenge another knight. Seek a magical flower in a dark forest. Oh, she knew her power, and he was her willing subject.
The server arrived, and they went through the formality of ordering. He selected the wine tasting along with the chef’s menu, deciding to enjoy the feast ahead. It was going to bepricey, but there was a lot to celebrate. Being with her for the first time was one cause for joy, and he already knew he wanted to see her again.
“I like being with you,” he admitted, pushing his gold spectacles up higher on his nose. “I’m glad we can do this without business talk.”
She leaned forward, the sweep of her shoulders making his pulse hammer. “I’m good at that too. You, Sawyer Jackson, are what women call a catch. You listen. You’re respectful. You’re interesting. And you’re handsome. Thank you for agreeing to meet me tonight. I hope that you will be the one issuing the invitation next time.”
Her eyes drifted down, and he caught the first sign of vulnerability. Yes, she had some. Didn’t everyone?
“I’d already been thinking about it actually,” he said. “Phoebe, I’d very much like to go out with you again.”
“Then we shall.” She beamed. “I’m also glad I can eat in front of you. I have what some would call a big appetite, but I can’t help it. I adore food.”
She had a big appetite for life, he thought.
He found himself eager to feast himself.
It was about damn time he did.
