Page 31 of Sawyer
CHAPTER
NINE
Facing a blank canvas was to painters what facing a blank page was to writers.
Rationalization didn’t satisfy his inner critic and free his hand. Neither did thinking about his fabulous date last night. He hadn’t kissed Phoebe good night except for raising her hand to his lips like a good gentleman, but then again, he’d always been the kind to take things slow.
He could already hear Brooke’s snail reference.
Which was what motivated him to finally pick up a paintbrush and stalk to the canvas, his paint palette in his other hand. He was done being a snail. They didn’t turn into butterflies. They just had people pour salt on them.
Hell, he really was a lunatic. Good thing most painters were…
Okay, that admission eased some of his tension. He dipped his brush in some Burnt Umber and started to outline the shapes in the painting with light brushstrokes. When he committed, he threw his everything in with him. Even if he ended up painting an X through his painting or ripping it in half and tossing it into the garbage bin.
Phoebe’s shape came to being. The lean lines of her body.The oval face. He’d need to blend Alizarin Crimson with a brown for her hair, but even that might not be quite right.
He pushed that thought aside and continued to flesh out the underpainting. Only he kept coming back to her, standing in the middle of the painting, the scene from when he’d first seen her last night. Her aqua coat, glowing like an ocean jewel, would tonally be the perfect contrast for the blackness of the night around them. It was like she’d known…
Her smiling face. Her expressive eyes. The elegant brows. He started filling them in. He couldn’t help himself. When he reached the sides of her face, he realized he hadn’t paid attention to her ears. What shape were they? Would it be weird to text her and ask?
Yeah. Totally. But it was tempting. He’d already texted her last night to make sure she’d gotten home okay and to tell her again how much he’d enjoyed their time together. How much he couldn’t wait to go out again.
How many days did he have to wait to formally ask her? He wasn’t interested in playing games. He’d already told her he wanted to go out again. But asking for another rendezvous today would be too fast.
Wouldn’t it?
As he painted her eyes, their sparkle seemed to laugh at him. Too fast for Phoebe? Never. He should text her about having a café. A walk along the Seine.
Fuck being the snail.
They didn’t need to do another Michelin dinner, although that had been freaking delicious. He liked that she loved to eat. He’d never really gotten to enjoy food when he was growing up. His mother was a fanatic about diets and eating healthy. No butter. No sugar. No…soul.
That had been one of the reasons he’d pursued Nanine’s advertisement when he’d seen it on the student bulletin board years ago. If anyone could teach him how to enjoy food, it would be the French. Voltaire raved about food. But whileSawyer had loved his famous quote—nothing would be more tiresome than eating and drinkingif God had not made them a pleasure as well as a necessity—he hadn’t understood it at the time.
Nanine had changed all that. She and his roommates had changed everything for him. Looking back, he realized he’d been starved—for food and connection and life. For love.
He wondered if Phoebe would change things for him too.
His heart pumped faster as he painted her mouth—the mouth he had studied throughout dinner as she spoke, ate, and smiled and laughed. The mouth he would kiss next time, because it had taken every bit of self-control not to step closer and touch the cheek he was now painting before kissing those full, wide, rosy lips.
He got lost to the blur of paint. Of bodies taking shape. Of Phoebe coming more and more to life, standing tall and bold as the focus of his large canvas.
A knock sounded on his studio door. He wanted to curse. He wanted to yell, “Go away,” but he knew the person must need him. No one interrupted his studio time.
He stalked over to the door and used part of his painter’s smock devoid of wet paint to open it. Brooke and Axel stood there, a statement of power, like a major installation in the center of a museum. They were the thing you noticed first, larger than life.
“I’m so sorry,” Brooke immediately said with a wince. “No one had seen you since your date two days ago, and we were concerned.”
He pressed a hand to his temple before he realized he was holding a paintbrush. “Seriously?”
“Losing track of time while painting is a good thing,” Axel noted. “You’ve obviously been on a roll, as you Americans say.”
“I had to paint—her, the scene.” She’d been staring at him, almost daring him to do her justice. He’d picked up the challenge like he would a glove to duel over a point of honor.
“Have you eaten?” Brooke asked, zooming in on his face.
“I had snacks?—”
