Page 15 of Sawyer
What should have been a cacophony of color somehow looked perfect on her.
His mouth went dry.
God, she was captivating! Her vitality was as tangible as awaterfall. She wasn’t afraid to be seen, and it made him insatiably curious about her. What kind of upbringing had she had to be so bold, to be so…herself.
Because he knew he was looking at an original—the same way he knew when he was looking at a print.
Then she looked up, and his stomach lodged in his throat. Those eyes…
What paint could ever do them justice?
Then he noticed the book in her hand.Titus Andronicus.Whoa! Shakespeare had written a lot of plays, but this was one of his most obscure. No question about it—he had to know more about this beautiful woman.
“Excuse me, miss,” he called out, taking a few steps toward her. “I have to ask… What made you pick upTitus Andronicusof all plays? Was it the 1999 movieTituswith Anthony Hopkins?”
She laughed and sauntered toward him. “No, but that was a great movie,” she said, her voice melodic with a slight British accent. “Actually, this is the second time I’ve read it. My latest edition ofThe Shakespeare Journalhad an article on the 1957 theater production with Laurence Olivier and Vivien Leigh, which inspired me to pick it up again.”
His heart began an excited drumming in his chest. “The production where they used red ribbons to denote the blood?—”
“Which had people fainting in the theater.” She put a dramatic arm to her forehead. “I’ve always wondered if that would have been me. Or if I would have laughed and gotten kicked out. Not at the ribbons. But at the people fainting. I mean, how horrific could those trailing ribbons really have been?”
He started to laugh. “Yeah, that’s my first thought when I see a red ribbon trailing behind someone’s straw hat on a windy day. Blood. Brain injury.”
“Call an ambulance!” she cried and then winced. “Oops. Better not say that too loudly.”
Her laughter joined his. God, she had a gusty laugh, filled with passion and color, and he didn’t want it to end. He knew it was crazy, but he suddenly wanted to ask her out. “Are you visiting Paris? Because I’d really love to invite you to coffee. If you’re free…”
She worried her lip, her beautiful laugh disappearing on the wind. “Oh, how I wish I were simply a tourist and that we could join arms and head off to a café and laugh some more. Because you are absolutely adorable, Dr. Jackson.”
He nearly dropped his art box. “Whoa! How do you know my name?”
“I do my research like a good student, which you would appreciate as a professor,” she said, edging closer with a flair even the wind might envy.
“Hang on… Now you’re really freaking me out.”
“I’m sorry.” She had the grace to wince. “To be fair, I did come by Nanine’s to meet you yesterday. Did you get my card? I’m Phoebe Anderson with the Anderson Gallery in Saint-Germain.”
He had to grip his art box tighter. Wait—he knew that name. This funny, beautiful woman was one of the people who were interested in him as an artist? And from a big gallery, no less. “No way! You look way different than you do in your photo on the website.” Madison had laid down eight such cards yesterday, and between the champagne toasts and the ongoing party at the house until late in the evening, he, Brooke, Axel, and Kyle had looked up everyone. Her included.
“Way different in a way I never want to look again.” Her eyes went to angry slits. “My mother put an old photo of me in New York black with my hair in a tidy little French twist from when I was interning at the Doray Gallery in Soho over six years ago.”
His mouth went dry. Every renowned artist showed his or her work there. “You were at the Doray?”
“Yes, and I didn’t fit in very well, although I tried, which part of me hates.” She cursed. “Back then I was still seeking parental approval. My only excuse was I was in my early twenties and still growing up.”
What was Sawyer’s excuse? Wasn’t letting his mother’s question mess with his mind the same thing? Otherwise, he wouldn’t care what she thought, right? Only it wasn’t just that. He was self-critical as well.
Her brow was knit, the lines there a clear sign of female frustration. “No comment, Dr. Jackson? Like that’s okay, Phoebe. Or why did you have a mother complex?”
He pushed his gold spectacles up higher on the bridge of his nose. “I wouldn’t presume. We all have shit with our parents.”
“Well said.” Her exhale was harsh. “You should know. I’m so over it. But my mother loathes my style now—it’s too gauche and bohemian for words, Phoebe.We disagree yet again. Only her web people created and run my branch website, and they do what she says under punishment of death. We’ve been battling over that photo since it went up last month.”
He could understand controlling mothers. Maybe that was why she read Shakespeare. His plays were teeming with them. “Well, I happen to like your style. It’s what I first noticed about you. One of the reasons I wanted to ask you out…”
God, should he be embarrassed?
“Thank you! I’ll give her your opinion when we have another family argument via Zoom.”
