“He painted portraits.”
“Got that.”
“Oh, right. Anyway, I, um, thought, that is, I’m thinking about giving it a shot. Painting. Portraits.”
Glory hallelujah! She knew he could do it, she just knew it! “That’s great, Todd! You’ll be painting again. How wonderful! I’m sure Mike will be thrilled.”
And he was back to shuffling, which was quite endearing—not that she needed any help in finding him endearing.
“The thing is… ” He did that hand-raking thing through his hair.
“Go on.”
“I haven’t concentrated on portraits in the past and I’d like you to… ” He shoved both hands into the front pockets of his shorts.
“To… ?”
He cleared his throat and stopped the shuffling, throwing back his shoulders and looking her in the eye. “To pose for me.”
Okay, where’d her tongue go?
She swallowed (twice) and it reappeared. “Pose? Me? For you?” Though it seemed to have lost its capacity for more than the most basic elements of speech.
“Yes. I need a subject and you’re around, and, well, I can pay you.”
Whoa. Wait. She got to spend hours on end in his company and got paid for it while he studied every angle of her face? Was there a downside to this?
It was perfect. A chance to help him and lord knew, she wouldn’t find it a hardshi—
Hold on. Didn’t most artists’ models pose in the—
“How exactly would you want me to, um, pose for you, Todd?” And where did that “sorry” issue come into play?
He got her meaning in an instant. Well, goody, she could make him blush every bit as much as he could her.
“I just want to paint your face, Jolie. I told you that your name fits you, and I’d like to capture it on canvas. You’ve got beautifully expressive eyes, gorgeous high cheekbones, a classically sculpted nose, perfect angles and hollows to practice portraiture. Nothing more.” The blush was gone as he met her eyes, hand over his heart. “I promise.”
“Okay.” She wasn’t giving him any chance to back out. She could do this. For him. For his art. “But on one condition.”
“What is it?”
“Well, first of all, you don’t need to pay me. I’m staying in your house on your charity, so now we can call it even.”
“It’s not charity, but fine. Done.”
“And second—”
“You said one condition.”
She gave him her best version of his eyebrow-quirking maneuver. “And secondly, while I’d love for you to start showing again, I don’t want my face plastered all over some art gallery.”
She’d been on a local agency’s flyer for the foster program one year and the ribbing from it made her shy from that type of publicity ever since. Plus, there’d been something about the whole world seeing her at her most vulnerable, and she just didn’t want to ever feel like that again.
And no, there was absolutely no correlation whatsoever between her wanting her privacy and invading his by using him for inspiration for her story. If it ever did see the light of day, no one—including the man himself—would know who’d inspired it. But a painting, especially a portrait… people would have to be blind not to see it was her in that frame.
“Don’t worry about it, Jolie. I’m not planning to show again. This will be for me. I’d like to give it a go for the sheer pleasure of painting. Nothing more.”
“Okay. So, that’s what all the painting and whatnot was with the attic?”
Just remember, Jols, you’re basically a science experiment. Don’t forget it.
Thanks, Naughty Girl, for putting it all in perspective. As if the “sorry” incident wasn’t enough.
“Yes, though the idea actually started when we were talking about the sunset on The Midnight Maiden. As I was reliving how I got started painting, the urge kind of nudged me. Mr. Griff’s book did more nudging.”
“You were pretty interested in it. And I got a whole lesson on Junior.”
“Sorry if I droned on about him.”
“Not a problem.” She shrugged. “I’m glad I could help. And it was kind of interesting, in a medieval sort of way.”
“Tudor, but that’s not important. Anyway, the attic seems like the perfect place to set up a studio, hence—”
“The project.”
“The project.”
“But you told Mike you weren’t going to paint anymore.”
He put both hands on his hips and the movement stretched his shirt across his own set of well-defined angles and hollows. “Of course I did. If he hears I’m even thinking about picking up a brush, he’ll be all over me. You saw what happened when I gave him the last of my landscapes.” He shook his head. “I don’t want him bugging me. This is for me. To see if I can re-discover the joy of the process.”
“And I’m part of the process?”
“You’re part of the process. An essential part.”
“A convenient part. You could have a bevy of fans banging down your door to sit for you for free.”
His fingers reached out to stroke her arm. Mr. Touchy-Feely didn’t seem to be aware he was doing it. “But I feel comfortable around you, Jolie. You won’t ask a dozen questions about my work or my life, or go blabbing to the media. You treat me like a real person, not a celebrity, or worse, someone to be pitied. I don’t have to rehash every painful moment of the past two years. You’re my friend, Jolie, and I can really use one.”
And there went another sucker-punch to the gut. Or somewhere suspiciously close to her heart. The guy had an incredible way with words. He really should try writing.
“Put that way, you’ve got a deal.” Jolie held out her hand.
Todd took a deep breath and looked at her outstretched hand.
He was really going to do this. He was going to paint again.
He could do this with Jolie.
He took another breath and shook her hand and the contact seared up his arm, infusing his body with her vitality. No one was like Jolie.
What about your wife?
Oh hell. He hadn’t thought that. Trista, with her light auburn hair, those amber eyes, her laugh, her smile… She was one of a kind.
Just like Jolie. In her own, different, special way.
Trista was gone. She’d loved him and wouldn’t want him to mourn her forever.
She’d actually want him to move on. Go forward in his life. Maybe even—
Maybe even care for someone else.
He’d never thought he could care for another woman, but the woman in front of him, so bright and optimistic and generous and full of hope, so vibrant and alive…
So damaged from her past yet brave and strong and determined to go on.
No, Trista wouldn’t have a problem with him being attracted to Jolie.
The question was, would Jolie?
Chapter Twenty
“Want to take a dip to cool off?” Todd asked her as they returned home—er, to the house.
His house. Not her house, not their house. Big difference.
“No thanks.” She closed Mel’s door with a crunch that could only mean the seatbelt had made another ding in the doorframe. Just one more dent in Mel’s exterior. Comparisons to herself not allowed.
“That’s a pretty definite no.”
“What I mean is, I want to grab a shower and then I’ve got some more work to do on my, um, you know, book. I haven’t had a chance to add in the crêpes and I might as well do a chocolate chip cookie recipe notation on exactly how much of each ingredient goes into making twenty-four hundred cookies while it’s still fresh in my mind. Plus, I had some other ideas that I’d like to write down and then maybe give them a whirl in the kitchen. If you don’t mind, that is.”
“There you go again.”
“What?”
“Your brain on warp speed.” He tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear. “And before you get all uppity about it, I meant it as a compliment. Your mo
m should have named you Joie de Vivre.”
Joy of living? Happy, carefree? That’s how he saw her?
Wow. She could definitely live with that. “No offense taken.” Especially since he was tucking yet another wayward strand behind her ear. Oh, for a windblown “do” again.
“How about eight o’clock tomorrow?”
“Eight o’clock?” She was still stuck on his fingers in her hair. Maybe his “sorry” earlier wasn’t for kissing her. Just maybe.
“Tomorrow morning? Attic? Remember?” He dropped his hand and thought rushed in.
“Oh. Sure. Eight’s fine. What would you like for breakfast?”
He waved his hand. “Really, I’m fine with cereal.”
“And, really, I’m fine with cooking. It’s what I was hired for, after all. I’ve got a great recipe for a ham and Swiss puff pastry quiche.”
“That’s fine. Whatever works.” Todd did the hands in his pockets thing and the crickets chirped around them. A soft breeze from the river rustled the tree near the driveway while a frog dove into the ornamental pond with a plop. The scent of Todd’s warm skin and that Grey Flannel she liked so much added to the ambiance in a way that could only be described as wonderful.
And then Todd took a step inside her personal space and things went from wonderful to spectacular, what with the moon electing to train its beams on Todd’s golden hair while his gorgeous eyes held hers captive, and memories of The Kiss filling her mind.
Would he or wouldn’t he?
Did she want him to?
Uh, duh…
“Jolie… ”
“Todd… ”
Nervous laughter broke the spell.
“I guess I’ll see you in the morning.” His voice was husky and this time she knew for sure that nothing was stuck in his throat.
“Yes. In the morning.” Her articulateness was astounding.
“Well, goodnight then.” He didn’t step back.
“Goodnight.” Neither did she.
“Meow.”
Meow?
It took another “meow” before she realized Todd wasn’t imitating a cat, but, rather, a white kitten with four black paws wound around and between their ankles like a Celtic knot.
“Oh, look how cute.” She picked the little guy up. He purred, butting her cheek with his head. “Is he yours?”
“Never saw it before.”
“Do you think he belongs to someone?”
“Probably one of the neighbor kids.”
“It’s a little late to go door-to-door, don’t you think?” And, yep, she did have an inkling what a girl with big violet eyes and a cute little kitten nestled against her cheek could do to a big tough guy’s resolve.
Todd sighed but with a little smile going on beneath that tough exterior as he crossed his arms on his chest. “Okay, you can keep him until someone claims him. I guess we can print up some Found posters.”
“Thanks, Todd.” She gave the kitten a little kiss and he purred even louder. The kitten, not Todd. But she wouldn’t mind Todd doing some purring—“I’ll keep him in my room.”
“Lucky for the both of you I use kitty litter on my driveway in the winter instead of salt, so there’s a bag of it in the garage.” Todd petted their new friend.
Yep. If guys could get a girl’s attention with a puppy, why couldn’t girls do the same with a kitty? The question then begged to be asked about why was she vying for Todd’s attention, but she’d ignore it for a while.
“I bet he’s hungry. I’ll make him some eggs. Unless you’ve got cat food around for some other winter predicament?” Jolie rubbed Mr. Kitty’s cheek with hers, that soft rumble of his tickling.
“Funny.” Todd tapped her nose. The kitten’s, too, before heading for the litter.
Jolie watched him go with a sigh. Could there be something happening between them? Or was she just imagining it? Mom had thought so countless times and those guys had never worked out. What if she had the same tendencies?
That put a damper on the residual goodness of the day, and since the kitten couldn’t answer that question and standing here in the moonlight mooning over Todd definitely wouldn’t, Jolie headed inside to take care of the newest addition to the fami—
To the household. Not the family. There was no family.
“So what are you going to name him?” Todd asked carrying a plastic box filled with kitty litter through the kitchen door.
“Mr. Kitty?” She shrugged, cracking an egg for the kitten who’d decided to take up residence on top of her new sandal.
“Jolie, I can’t go around calling him Mr. Kitty. And how do you know it’s a boy?”
“Didn’t anyone ever teach you about the birds and the bees, Todd?” She almost choked on the words, as the image of The Kiss loomed large on her mental horizon.
Todd got a wicked, wicked grin on his face. “Trust me, Jolie, I know all about the birds and the bees.”
“I believe you.” Oh, yeah. No doubt there. Her face was like a thousand degrees, and she spun around to hide that fact, dislodging the kitten who meowed as his bed turned into a carnival ride.
She whisked the eggs a bit harder than necessary. “As to your question, male cats look like a colon under their tail and females look like upside down exclamation marks.”
“Punctuation? That’s how you tell? Thank God humans are different.”
You got that right, buddy. Way different.
“So, is there another choice for a name? I’ll lose all sense of masculinity if I have to call him Mr. Kitty.”
“Do you have a better idea?” Into the pan went the overly-scrambled eggs.
“Killer.”
She snorted. “Puhleaze. Does he look like he’s dangerous?”
They looked down where the kitten had curled up between her feet again. His little pink tongue lolled out the side of his mouth and he snored softly.
“Sleepy.”
The kitten’s tail twitched.
“I don’t think he likes that one, Todd.”
Todd’s eyebrows arched. “How about Socks then?”
“Or Boots. As in Puss-in.” As a writer, she was familiar with this process, kind of stream-of-consciousness rambling to get what she needed.
“Fine. It’s late, I’m sweaty, and you’re naming the newest punctuation mark to join the household Boots. Shoes, Sandals, Sneakers… any kind of footwear is better than Mr. Kitty. I’ll see you both in the morning.”
And there he went, taking all thoughts of what if with him—which was probably for the best anyway. He was just coming out of his self-imposed emotional hibernation; it probably wasn’t the best idea to read anything more into anything other than he was rejoining the world of the living and she just happened to be handy.
Right. That was what she needed to remember.
Jolie hunkered down to pet Boots while he slurped up his eggs—her own little “just so happened to be handy” friend. Nothing wrong with being the “handy” friend, as long as you weren’t looking for professions of undying love and everlasting commitment, though if no one claimed Boots, he could expect just that from her.
What could she expect from Todd?
Jolie couldn’t go there. So she chose to go to her room instead. She settled Boots on the pillow next to her, and he, sweet thing, licked her knee with his sandpaper tongue, then wrapped his tail around his body, flicking it softly against her thigh, his black paws such a contrast against his snow-white fur. He purred himself to sleep while she struggled away on her manuscript. With Todd pulling at her heartstrings, she wanted to imbue Tom with all that emotion. At least it’d be good for something.
An hour or so later, her pencil was a nub and her brain numb, so she put the notebook aside. Tom was working very well now. Perfectly ready to let a woman into his life.
And she wasn’t even going to touch that thought.
Chapter Twenty-One
“Jolie, you need to put the damn cat outside.”
“I can’t. He might run
away.”
“Stop moving. He’s distracting me, damn it. Every time I move he’s swatting my shoe laces.”
“So take off your shoes.” Did she just suggest Todd remove an article of clothing?
“Fine.” Todd exhaled and removed them. “Why didn’t you leave him in your room? He’s going to start in on the paintbrushes soon.”
“So give him one. What’s it going to hurt? You have yet to pick up a brush.”
“That’s because I’m sketching you first. Turn your head to the right. There, that’s it. Now tilt your eyes up toward the top of the window. Just like that. Good. Hold it. Don’t move.”
There she sat, staring at a piece of window trim in the west wing the Morning After. Not that this was a Morning After worthy of being called a Morning After, given that the time she was spending with him was relegated to discussions about light, positioning, and, of course, the diatribe against the kitten. An artist’s model’s life was definitely not glamorous. Quite odious, actually. They’d been there for a good two-and-a-half hours so far and Todd had said all of six words which weren’t cat-related: “Good morning,” “Sit here,” and the ever-present “Don’t move.”
Yep, that was about it. She was hoping it was simply that he’d gotten up on the wrong side of the bed that morning and that this wasn’t his normal artistic temperament. Because, if it was, she might push for an end to his re-instituted career before he’d even had a chance to get started. Or at least suggest he find a new model because she didn’t care how cute and sweet and caring and sexy and funny and friendly and nerve-shivering he was, this was not worth it.
“You know, Jolie, you really are a beautiful woman.”
Well, okay, maybe it was. “Um, thanks?”
“Don’t move.”
And there went that moment.
“I just hope I can do your bone structure justice. The way your lashes brush beneath your eyebrows—they’re incredibly long, but natural-looking. Not come-hither. More… inviting. Yes, that’s the word. A window dressing for your soul. I’ve got to get the curve of them right.”
Wow. He could say that without dissolving into a puddle of mush on the floor? She, on the other hand, was getting quite boneless. “Todd—”
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