CHAPTER
TWENTY-THREE
Sawyer stepped back from his painting and reached for a cloth to wipe off the paint on his hands.
Madison dominated the center of the canvas, her gaze looking off to the left toward Kyle’s shadowy figure. He’d captured her short curly hair—the old haircut—and he was more than pleased with the attitude-rich angles of her chin and jawline. Too bad her golden eyes were frustrating the hell out of him.
Gold, by nature, held warmth. The metal was known for it. He’d thought he’d selected the right paint color, but Madison’s eyes didn’t properly convey the sense of love and longing she had when she looked at Kyle. Part of the problem was that he hadn’t spent any real time with her since she and Kyle had hooked up. Totally understandable. They were doing their “thing” and he and the rest of his roommates were giving them space.
He was thrilled their relationship was going well, but for the past couple of days, he’d worried something was up. Kyle’s check-in texts hadn’t been as funny as normal. He was stressed, and who could blame him? The renovation was rushing forward, and celebrities were blowing up his phoneand Brooke’s for reservations. But Kyle was used to handling work stress. This felt like something more.
Phoebe emerged from their bedroom in Friday night going-out attire—a turquoise sexy off-the-shoulder top, red tight-fitted skirt, and white sparkly tall boots. She cocked her brow. “She still giving you fits?”
“She’s not like you.” He tapped his fingers to his mouth before he remembered he probably hadn’t gotten all the paint off. “You’re an open book.”
Snorting, she crossed and studied the painting alongside him. “That’s because with you, I’m as easy as they come.”
He glanced over at her beautiful profile, delight growing inside him from simply being near her.“I love you more than words can wield the matter, Dearer than eyesight, space, and liberty.”
She shivered, murmuring low in her throat to drive him wild. “King Lear.Oh professor! Whatever shall I do with you?”
“I have some ideas,” he said in an equally low voice as their mouths inched closer together. “Before we head out to dinner…”
The call box buzzed. They broke apart after a quick kiss. “Timing is everything. You expecting anyone?” Phoebe asked.
He shook his head. “I don’t think so.”
Shooting him a glance, she reached for his phone and held it up. “Dean texted.”
Shuffling over, he read the message quickly. “He said he has something to show me.”
“Given his attention span, he clearly decided to swing by.” She walked to the wall panel. “That you, Dean?”
“Yeah! Doc didn’t answer my text. He’sgotto see what I found.”
She buzzed him in and then turned back toward Sawyer, her eyebrows raised. “Five euros it isn’t a macrame owl thistime. Why don’t I go to our fave café and have a glass so you boys can talk? You can meet me there.”
“Phoebe, you don’t have to leave.” He dashed into the bathroom and used the new paint salve she’d bought him to clean his hands. Phoebe was inexhaustible in her suggestions to make his painting life easier and better. God, he was so lucky destiny had brought them together.
She appeared in the doorway, the goddess of his now-perfect universe. “You’ve missed your one-on-one time with your friends. Being a couple is a huge change, and now that everyone is paired up?—”
“Everything feels different,” he finished, wiping his clean hands with a paper towel. “Except I’m so happy about it.”
“I know you are.” She kissed his cheek. “Maybe you should schedule a Drink and Divulge night for roommates only soon. Get the old gang together. I’ll take the Plus Ones out myself.”
He repositioned his gold spectacles. “Good idea. Now, I’d better see what Dean wants.”
His friend blew in like a mistral in the south of France, wrapping him up in a giant bear hug that lifted him off the ground before grabbing Phoebe and dipping her like a ballroom dance competitor.
“I couldn’t wait for you to read my text, Doc,” he said after setting a laughing Phoebe back on her feet. “I was looking for fun Irish-themed food and beverage T-shirts for Pairings by Pierre for our opening on St. Patrick’s Day and this popped up. Sometimes search engines make no sense, but I decided it was kismet because it seems perfect for Madison.”
He pulled a folded T-shirt out of the now-crushed gift bag in his hand and unfurled the fabric. On the black was a quote Sawyer knew very well in bold white.
A good cook is a certain slow poisoner, if you are not temperate.
— Voltaire
“That’s your guy, right? Voltaire? I was like, I have to buy this for Madison. But I knew you’d love it too.”
