Page 52 of Sawyer
“Thank you!” He gave a little salute. “I’ll text you the link to the website after I get Doc’s comments.”
“Perfect. I can’t wait to see it.”
He headed to the doorway but paused, knitting his brow purposely as Kyle returned to his desk. “But I have one really serious question before I go.”
Kyle immediately went tense. “What?”
“What are your feelings on Doc having an exotic pet? Dali had his ocelot named Babou, and their photos lit up the presses. I’m not sure Pierre is going to work, since he’sassociated with Nanine’s. How do you feel about a pet python?”
“No.”
“A monkey? I’m waffling between a capuchin or a marmoset.”
Kyle planted his hands on his desk. “No, Dean. Absolutely not. You are not visiting that pet store where you got Pierre and buying Sawyer an exotic animal companion!”
“Sloths are cute, and they wouldn’t move around much.”
“Dean!”
He bit his lip to keep from laughing. “I see my research continues. We’ll find the perfect exotic pet for our artistic friend.”
When Kyle threw a notebook, he barely closed the door in time. Then he let his laughter loose. God, that had been fun, and now Kyle was no longer as tense. Job complete.
Time for his next mission. His knock on Sawyer’s studio went unanswered, so he opened the door a crack. Doc was staring at a large canvas, streaks of red and orange on his right cheek and ear. The studio was a mess of take-out containers, paper cups, and drink containers. But who cared when Doc had not only one but three canvases in different progressions on the three large easels he’d set up. And in every painting, Dean could detect the figure of Phoebe Anderson.
Dude had it bad.
“I come bearing gifts,” he called out, holding up the cards like a white flag. “I promise to leave quickly.”
“I’m painting!” Doc responded, aggrieved.
“I know, and I’m sorry, but since you barely leave the studio except to see your new girl, I had to brave the artistic chamber. Plus, you need what I have. Come see.”
Sawyer grumbled as he set his palette and brush aside and wiped his hands on a paint rag. His glasses were smudged with paint, which made him look pretty adorable for a guy.Like a little boy who’d been finger painting all day. Except this was serious art, of course. But still…
Doc looked to be having more fun, thank God. For that, Dean was tempted to go by Phoebe’s gallery and give the woman a dozen white roses in thanks.
“You got me business cards!” Sawyer exclaimed, reaching for the card he held up.
Dean didn’t bother to yank it back. It was only paint. “You’re officially an artist now. You need cards.”
“Shit!” Doc pressed the card to his forehead. “This makes itrealreal, if you get me. I remember when the dean of my department personally dropped off my first professor cards. It felt like I was reaching a threshold.”
Dean didn’t pat him on the back. Orange and light green smears were glistening on his white smock. “It’s a big moment. Do you like it? I can add?—”
“No, it’s perfect. The font. The brevity. The— Dude, it’s freaking awesome.”
Dean puffed out his chest. “Good, because I also mocked up a website.”
His brown eyes went wide as saucers behind his gold spectacles.“What?”
“Look, you have an agent now. People can’t keep calling Kyle or Axel or the restaurant. Or Brooke, for that matter. You need a place with information about you. Write up your bio, and we’ll add it. Like when you painted your first elephant at three or something and were told it was genius.”
Doc snorted. “It was a lion, and my mother only asked, ‘Is it good enough, Sawyer?’ Like always.”
“As we know, your mother is an overbearing, helicopter bitch. And she’ll be telling all her friends how brilliant you are, I’m sure, as word travels about your accomplishments.”
“Maybe, but she got a Google Alert about theLe Mondearticle so she’s aware my art career is progressing,” he commented. “I sent a noncommittal reply when she texted.”
