Page 87 of Sawyer
“But it’s her mother’s gallery! She took it, knowing Phoebe wanted it.”
“Yeah, but that’s not your fault.” Brooke gave one of her famous dragon breaths. “What is it about bitchy mothers? Yours, mine, and Phoebe’s. They should be taken out into the forest and?—”
“No need for violence,elskede.” Axel patted her hand. “Although the sentiment is understandable. Sawyer, use this for fuel. Paint from it. What it feels like to be treated like that by a woman who’s supposed to love you.”
He could already see the boy he would paint. He was five years old, bringing home a silly craft from school. His mother had taken it with a frown and held it out in disgust.Is this really the best you could do, Sawyer?He’d fought tears as she’d gone to the trash compactor and thrown it inside, hitting the button to destroy it. Something he’d loved making. Something he’d been so happy and proud to give her.
The sound had been too loud for his ears, and he’d run from the room with his hands over them. Inside his bedroom, he’d tunneled under his covers and curled up into a ball, crying. He’d fallen asleep like that. She’d never even come to get him for dinner or to give him a bath.
“I don’t think I can paint that feeling.” He pressed his hand to his solar plexus where the hurt pulsed. “No, I don’t think I want to. That’s too…hard.”
“As you say,” Axel only responded. “Yet it is the person you are who must learn how to paint for himself. I know you will figure it out. You’ve come this far.”
Hehadcome this far.
Now he had to go even farther. He realized Nanine had been right all along when she’d shared the Mouton motto with him.
In the end, he had to be his own,Sawyer, I am,or he would be nothing.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-FIVE
Why couldn’t any of her roommates have an easy path to love?
Madison stormed around the kitchen after Kyle’s SOS text about Doc, Pierre and her staff eyeing her warily. She hated to be a distraction, but knowing Sawyer, he’d be alllife is a horrible conundrum of existential dreadas he had an anxiety attack, bemoaning never painting or finding love again. Argh!
And Doc wanted her to take the plunge intolocurawith Kyle? For maybe a split second—okay, longer—she’d thought about it. But now? Forget it!
Her roommates’ track record with love proved it was full of drama and bullshit. And none of them had even close to the complications she had with Kyle.
Sure, there had been the career conundrums with Thea over staying here in Paris or going back home. Then Dean and Jacqueline had gotten tangled up over her family’s feud related to their wine cave, and the snafu between Brooke and Axel had prompted Madison to march over to the Nordic giant with her cleaver and tell him what’s what. Now Sawyer and Phoebe’s number had been called.
Was it any wonder she didn’t think she and Kyle had a shot? She cleaved a duck breast in half.Look at the freaking odds, people.
But Doc’s love life wasn’t going down without a fight. Not on her watch. Phoebe was going to hear what’s what and then get her head out of her ass. But first she had to get into her apartment because Kyle said Phoebe had hung out of the window and yelled at Sawyer. She admired a woman who could shout down at the street and make a scene, but still…
Phoebe wouldn’t be opening the door all Nordic civilized like Axel had when she’d appeared on his doorstep. She needed a plan.
“Ça va?”Pierre called, flying after her as she washed her hands and went into the cooler, landing on her shoulder.
“I’m fine, Pierre.” She grabbed the stainless steel container of enhanced chicken stock and headed back out to the main kitchen. “Sawyer’s having women problems, and I’m going in like the cavalry.”
Dishing the stock into a small plastic container and throwing in some cooked rice, she closed the lid and dropped it in a paper bag along with a fresh baguette. Grabbing her coat, she kissed Pierre on the beak and glanced at her staff, who were surreptitiously watching her movements. “I need to step out for a little bit. Fabian, you’re in charge.”
The wind was cold when she let herself out. God, it was New Year’s Eve tomorrow night. She was glad she was working—always made sure she did—because it was the second saddest day to be single after your birthday. Especially when you wanted something you couldn’t have.
The short walk to Phoebe’s apartment didn’t take her but a few minutes since she was stomping down the sidewalk all the way. Pedestrians gave her a wide berth.
Unfortunately, the usual dog shit that riddled Paris’ streets wasn’t as smart, but she enjoyed cursingmerdeunder herbreath every time she stepped around it. She’d taken to playing that silly game instead of cursing the idiots who didn’t pick up after their pets.
She waited outside the building’s exterior door where she’d seen Phoebe exit on the night of their sleuthing, taking the time to get into character. Someone was going to come along—this was Paris—and people didn’t stay inside nonstop.
Sure enough, an older woman came shuffling down the street to Phoebe’s apartment building. Perfect. Phoebe was too social not to know her neighbors, especially an older French woman. She had a hunched, tortured gait and could barely hold her small market bag. God, Madison was never going to be that old. If she couldn’t work anymore, she’d have to throw herself into a large wine vat in Burgundy or something. Seemed like drowning in good wine would be a great way to go if you had to choose.
“Bonjour,”she called in French. “My dear friend, Phoebe, just got back from the States, and she’s sick. Too sick to get up and punch the call button, it seems. I brought her bread and soup. Would you be able to let me in?”
The woman immediately respondedBien sûrand went even farther. She knocked on the landlady’s door and told her Madison needed help getting into Phoebe’s apartment because she was too sick to answer the door. God, she loved trusting people. Thank heavens serial killers didn’t go for old ladies or hang out in Paris. Now Miami…
