Page 21 of Sawyer
Dean danced to the door like the class clown he was. “Should we bring a flashlight?”
She playfully socked him in the arm. “It’ll look like we’re casing the joint. That’s asking for someone to call the police on us. Given how much the French love art, I’m guessing you could be arrested for eventhinkingof stealing it.”
“God, I love this country,” Dean stated, throwing his scarf over his shoulder. “Okay, Pink Panther, here we come.”
That had everyone chuckling as they let themselves out of the house into the frigid night. When they reached the street, she took the lead and turned right. She knew exactly where the gallery was.
After dinner, she’d slipped off with Madison to look up Phoebe Anderson. No one was stalking their Sawyer. Except her social media was stylish and filled with the kind of events any person in the arts would respect. She had impressive degrees and a polished résumé. Nothing seemed off. No lurid affairs. Professional.
Yes, she had a bold look, but it worked for her. The New York black she’d worn at the Doray had leeched her—something it did to a lot of women, herself included. Her conclusion: if women were supposed to only wear black, the world wouldn’t be in color.
“Did I mention how much I love that we’re doing this?” Dean’s glee was charming. “I’ve always wanted friends who would go to great lengths for me.”
“Well, here we are.” Madison stepped into the street, devoid of cars. “In all our protective glory.”
“Tell me you brought your cleaver, Madison,” Dean begged, making her give a reluctant chuckle.
Brooke was laughing softly herself as she watched Kyle leave the sidewalk and cross to Madison’s side, as if he wanted to keep close to her. Protective? Yes. But it felt more than that. She took a moment to study them, Madison in her usual black and Kyle wearing his new wine-colored wool coat.
She couldn’t take her gaze away from how well they fit together. Sometimes it was like looking at a couple and not two of her roommates.
Everyone in the house knew they were into each other. Everyone also understood why they were fighting their connection.
This was their family. What happened to everyone if they blew up their friendship? Nanine had set her no-fraternization rule all those years ago for a reason. Sex could mess things up.
Only it was more than attraction between them…
She turned at the next right and told herself to focus on Operation Sawyer. Madison had enough on her hands with the opening, and Kyle could take care of himself. If they wanted her help for anything, she was there.
Wasn’t checking on a woman at nearly midnight proof of that?
She was the first to reach the gallery tucked into the curve of the narrow street known for its art galleries. Call her sentimental, but there was a palpable reverence here. Other streets in Paris known for fashion had a more excitable energy—even after the stores went dark, prized masterpieces like unique boots, handbags, or that special dress would shine like beacons in the moonlit storefronts. It was like patrons had left a sliver of their shopping joy in those streets. But here…a sanctified silence soothed her usually busy soul. Her steps slowed as she took a deep breath in the cold night. Phoebe had chosen the location well.
“The sign is classy,” Kyle noted as he tipped his headtoward the front of the gallery. “Same as the one in London. Good branding.”
“The font choice screams tradition and legacy,” Brooke filled in, “although Ivy Anderson didn’t open her gallery until 1989.”
Dean stepped to the glass and peered inside. “The streetlight isn’t bright enough, but I think there are paintings on the walls.”
“There are,” a woman’s voice suddenly called out in the quiet night.
Brooke looked up. Phoebe Anderson was hanging out of the second-story window, her hair a deep mahogany because of the muted light. Shit. “Good to know. I’m Brooke Adams, and these are the rest of my friends. We’re helping Dr. Sawyer Jackson, whom I understand you met today. We decided to take a look at all of the galleries that have gotten in touch. Yours is our last stop tonight.”
“Nice one,” Dean muttered under his breath as he punched up a smile and waved. “Shewouldlive above the gallery.”
“Hey, Phoebe,” Madison called, rocking back in her combat boots. “Good to see you again. I understand you found your way into the restaurant Friday night. How was it?”
“Splendid. As good as any Michelin-starred restaurant I’ve supped at. Why don’t I come down?”
“No need.” Kyle lifted his hand. “It’s cold out. Like Brooke said, we were only doing a walk by?—”
“No, I’m coming down.” She eased back through the window, her hair trailing like dark ribbons against the shadowed stone façade.
Dean winced. “I told you we should have worn all black.”
“Wouldn’t have mattered,” Madison told them. “Her window was open. Only I didn’t know it was hers.”
Leave it to Madison to have noticed a detail like that.
