Page 40 of Sawyer
Pretending to faint, she gave another husky laugh. “Henry VI.But the rest is pure troglodyte rubbish after that line.She is a woman, therefore to be won.Please! Won. Like I’m a lottery ticket.”
He could have run with that metaphor. People wanted to win the lottery. But he didn’t think she’d appreciate that line of thinking. “Is this where I ask you what your favorite Shakespeare play is?”
“I knew you were going to ask! I could never choose. Even if someone threatened to take off my fingernails in torture.”
“Ugh! Did you have to go there?”
“I saw a book on the shelf about an old exploration and got inspired. But to answer your question, I have myI will take these to a deserted islandfavorites, of course.”
“Nice way to put it.”
She leaned into him again, the scent of her perfume making his head spin in the best way. “If you’re a good professor, I’ll tell you a few as we browse the aisles. Maybe we’ll even find a few in here, all musty and well loved. God, I do adore that you picked a rare bookshop for our second date, Dr. Jackson. I wonder what you’ll pick for our third. Or should we alternate and have next time be my choice?”
She was practically dancing in excitement in the small aisle so how could he respond other than with: “Your turn. Of course.”
“Wonderful! I will make sure to spend two days thinking about it like you did this last time.”
“Hey! Like I told you, I wanted to text you right away, but then I got to painting. I pretty much didn’t eat or sleep. My friends had to bring takeout to my door after my snacks ran out.”
She gave a playful shiver. “If we didn’t have a rule aboutwork talk, I would pounce on you and ask what you painted. Except you already said me, which only makes me more curious. Come, let’s browse books, before I lose all reason and drag you to the nearest café and try and pry it out of you over Pastis.”
He laughed as he followed in her wake through the stacks. They shared their favorites on display. Beyond Shakespeare, she surprised him by being a fan of Alexandre Dumas, especiallyCamille,which he also considered a brilliant, yet heartbreaking, love story. She jostled him playfully when he confessed to lovingThe Three Musketeers, also by Dumas. But she didn’t like Albert Camus andThe Stranger.Nor was she a fan of Jean-Paul Sartre. He told her he wouldn’t hold it against her, which only made her kiss his cheek playfully.
When she selected a book of botany with colored flower drawings from the 1700s, he insisted on buying it. Her eyes narrowed as she told him it was too much. He only shrugged, saying, “A good book as a gift is never too much, especially when you love them as much as I do.”
She put her hand on his shoulder and kissed his cheek, leaving it there as she said softly in his ear, “It’s only because I agree with you that I’ll consent, but that means I’m buying dinner. I feel very strongly about pulling my weight, Sawyer.”
When she straightened, her green eyes were direct. He regarded her with equal frankness, standing there with her wild red hair, treasures of old books behind her. They were defining their relationship already, and for him, she might as well have been a dream conjured up by his imagination. “I honor women being what they need to be. Dinner’s all yours.”
She linked her arm through his when they left the bookstore, swinging her gift bag in the other hand. They browsed the other bookstores in Saint-Germain. By the end of it, he was giddy from being with her and being in those most-lovedplaces with her, roving over classics on the sometimes dusty bookshelves. The proper ambience, if you asked him. Too much pine-scented wood polish always seemed to lessen the magic in a bookshop.
But a book’s ultimate magic could never be silenced, he knew, and as they flew through the aisles on a shared high from their love of literature and reading, he discovered another truth he’d been missing his whole life.
Phoebe Anderson held the same magic for him as a precious book.
CHAPTER
TWELVE
Books had a way of bringing out every good facet and feeling in a person.
Phoebe was like that for Sawyer, too. By the time they grabbed a cab, they were both giggling and panting, having made the mutual decision to rush down the street to catch one that was flying by.
He was feeling as light as the proverbial feather. Not a single rumination about painting, his life, or all the changes. All his mind could focus on—wanted to focus on—was her.
“You make me present in the moment,” he confessed as they were driven through the golden-lit streets. “Very few people do that.”
The streetlights reaching into the car highlighted the carefree grin on her face as she reached for his hand and wove their fingers together. “I’m glad. You make it easy to just be me.”
That surprised him. “You always seem to be yourself. When aren’t you?”
She looked away then, the smile slipping from her face. “When there are expectations,” she only said, and after that, fell silent.
He held her hand the whole way to Chez Marie, and when the car stopped, he went around to open her door, but she was already hopping out. “Oops! I’ll try and wait next time. But I won’t always. I’m usually too eager to get moving.”
“I like that about you,” he said, striding to open the restaurant’s modest brown door.
She sailed through it after patting his cheek and murmuring,“Merci.”
