Beauty and The Best (Once-Upon-A-Time Romance)

by Fennell, Judi

  “I think that cat’s got it in for me,” Todd mumbled, rubbing the naked foot.

  “Or perhaps he thinks our time would be better spent with you at the easel and me on the… sofa?”

  “Fine, you can have the sofa. But you’ve got to promise not to fall asleep. It’s a pretty comfortable sofa.”

  “Cross my heart, witches’ honor, Girl Scout promise, take your pick.” She made the accompanying hand motions and got him laughing again.

  “I pick getting changed out of these wet clothes. I’ll be right down.”

  She wasn’t going to think about him stripping off his clothes. Nope. Not her. “I’ll whip up some French toast in the interim.”

  “Really, Jolie, Whe—”

  “I know, Wheaties would be fine. But sorry, buck-o, you’re stuck with a hot breakfast.”

  A moment—or maybe an eternity—of silence before his wicked, wicked grin reappeared. “A hot breakfast. Ah, how well you know me.” And on that note, he sauntered out the doorway.

  Did she know him well? She knew he kissed like nobody’s business—and that she’d like to keep it nobody’s business but her own. She knew he was a decent guy who had a bad thing happen to him. She knew he had reached a turning point in his life and she admired that he wasn’t afraid to move forward.

  And… she knew that she’d fallen in love with him.

  ***

  Todd took the stairs two at a time. He hadn’t had this much energy for as long as he could remember. Well, in the last two years, anyhow.

  He stripped off his bathing suit in the shower, marveling that he hadn’t made a conscious decision to not leave it in a wet heap on the floor as he usually did, but had just done it. Jasmine had nagged him all last summer, but back then, he couldn’t seem to remember even the simplest of things.

  But now, with Jolie here, it was like he’d gotten a new lease on life.

  He grabbed the shampoo and worked it into a lather. Oh, he knew it was his attraction to her that had woken him from two years of just existing. He wasn’t going to kid himself that it was something he’d done, some decision on his part. There was just something about her. She was so wide-eyed in spite of how shitty the world had treated her, so hopeful, so ready to believe, that his psyche couldn’t help but tap into those emotions.

  Today, for the first time in too long, he’d woken with a smile on his face. It’d been all he could do not to open her door and wish her a good morning, but they weren’t at that point yet.

  He ran the soap down his body and had to re-think that. A certain part of him was there, but that was just a physical response—although, he wasn’t going to knock it. Jolie had brought on the first physical response he’d had since the funeral. Another thing to thank her for.

  He had a lot to thank her for, though it wasn’t the reason he’d kissed her. No, he’d kissed her because he’d had to. Because he’d wanted to—nothing more, or less, than that. Which said a lot.

  But, hell, he didn’t want to blow this. She wasn’t a light affair kind of woman and he wasn’t in any emotional shape to examine forever; he’d been up front with her about not knowing where this “thing” between them was heading.

  But did anyone ever really know where it was heading? With Trista, he’d been pleasantly surprised that a woman of her background would go out with him; he’d asked her mainly to give himself incentive to “show her” when he made it big—someone from the other side of the tracks.

  But then she’d been real to him. She’d been her own person and had given him a chance.

  The same kind he wanted to give Jolie.

  Todd leaned his shoulder against the tiled wall and let the water sluice over him, cleaning the chlorine residue from his skin.

  That it also felt like a cleansing of his soul wasn’t something he could ignore. He’d carried the pain with him for so long, had wrapped it around himself to keep out the world. Yet somehow, with her smart phrases and her soft admissions, and that incredibly upbeat outlook of hers, Jolie had found a tiny gap in the pain and wormed her way in.

  He wasn’t going to let her get away.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Staring at the man she’d suddenly discovered she was in love with put a whole new spin on posing for him. There she was, staring at him while he concentrated so intently on the canvas and not on her, and all she could think about was what she was going to do about her new-found feeling.

  First and foremost, she couldn’t tell him. It was one thing to risk her heart in the privacy of her own body and soul, but to put it out there for public trampling, well, she wasn’t that brave. No matter the reward.

  For all she—and he—knew, she could be Rebound Girl: the girl a guy went out with right after the love of his life broke up with him and he had to prove to himself he still had “it,” whatever “it” was, and that Old Girlfriend didn’t know what she was missing and he’d show her. That would be Rebound Girl and Jolie so did not want to be her. Since all the parameters were right for rebounding, she’d just stay mum on the whole subject and see where it led.

  Especially since he was willing to let it lead where it may. She couldn’t expect any more positivity out of him at this stage in his recovery. She could always hope, of course, but Jolie, she was a realist. A newly optimistic realist, but a realist just the same.

  So there she was, lounging on the sofa, once again posing for more long hours, staring at the cute lock of hair that fell in his eyes (when she was supposed to be staring at the window), doing the eye-averting scenario whenever he looked like he was going to glance up from the canvas.

  “Jolie, can you please stop moving your eyes? It changes the lines under them.”

  She had lines? She huffed. She did not have lines.

  “And don’t huff. It puffs out your lips. Angelina Jolie is over-rated anyway. Hey, Angelina Jolie, you Jolie... ”

  Laugh it up, yuck-ball. She was still hung up on those lines.

  “What’s with the frown?” He sighed and put the charcoal down. “Something bothering you?”

  “I have lines. Under my eyes.”

  “Oh, that.” He shook his head, as if to say “women.” “Light filtering in through the window creates streaks of shadow and light on your skin. Like lines. I want to capture them before the sun changes.”

  “Oh.”

  He left his easel and sat on the sofa next to her. The not-very-wide sofa.

  “Don’t you remember me telling you that your skin is flawless?”

  She nodded.

  “It is. Peaches and cream.” His voice got deeper. “Honey smooth.” Honey smooth all right. “I’m hungry again.”

  He leaned in and voila! another clinch. She couldn’t help herself, and, apparently, neither could he.

  What a difference to the kiss when the man she was kissing was the one she could do it with for the rest of her life. She savored every nuance of his mouth, the play of muscles beneath her fingertips, the scent of his shampoo as his hair brushed her cheek. Her body strained toward him and, God, the relief when he leaned over her, pressing her into the softness of the sofa. He shifted, almost on top of her and, oh, it felt so right. So different from any guy before.

  This man was The One.

  He angled his head, his tongue stroking hers, and she groaned. Then his hand caressed her breast and she almost exploded with relief. She hadn’t even realized she’d wanted him to touch her there.

  Of course, if she’d thought about it she probably would have realized she did, but thinking was not happening at the moment. Feeling was. Majorly.

  She leaned into his caress, her nipple front and center in the middle of his palm, just begging for attention and, sweet man that he was, he obliged. His other hand combed through her hair, twirling the strands around his fist and holding her head in just the right place for maximum effect.

  Her hands slid under his shirt, brushing the fine hair there and stroking his sides. He groaned, his stomach muscles clenching as she feathered h
er fingers near his navel. Then she was sliding them up his chest to do some of her own obliging—

  Todd ripped himself off of her with a howl.

  “What the hell?” He turned and there clung a white Boots on Todd’s red t-shirt. Ouch. That had to hurt.

  “Get the damn thing off me, Jolie!” He reached over his shoulder, spinning, but it was futile. Boots had picked the exact spot where Todd couldn’t reach him.

  “Hold on.” Jolie pulled herself off the sofa and the moment her hands touched Boots, the little hell-cat let go and plopped into her palm.

  Todd glared at the cat who was now purring contentedly in her arms. “We need to get some Found posters out. I want that menace out of here.”

  Boots snorted.

  Todd glared at him. “I’m the only person I know with an attack cat. How ridiculous is that?”

  She reached out to rub his back just as the studio door opened and in walked Mrs. Gray.

  Jolie shot Boots a glance. The cat just smiled at her.

  Wait. He smiled at her?

  “Good morning, all. I thought I’d bring some brownies up today.”

  Brownies. Of course. Todd loved brownies. Jolie knew that.

  And so, apparently, did Mrs. Gray.

  Jolie would’ve thought—and actually did—that after their little gabfest, Mrs. Gray would want Jolie to be the one to butter the guy up—or brownie him up as the case may be. ’Course Mrs. Gray couldn’t have known Jolie was doing just that before she thought to arrive with said brownies, but still, wasn’t the way to a man’s heart through his stomach?

  Which just put a whole other spin on her reasons for becoming a chef.

  She’d let Mrs. Gray do the brownies today.

  “I’m just so thrilled you’re painting again, Todd,” Mrs. Gray waved those brownies like a red flag at a bull, all the while working her way oh-so-nonchalantly toward the easel. “I thought we should celebrate.”

  The woman was good, Jolie had to give her that. She might actually succeed in seeing what Todd was working on because his eyes were glued to that plate of chocolate.

  “Take one more step, Jasmine, and those brownies won’t taste very good when we scoop them off the floor.”

  Or so Jolie had thought. Nice try.

  Mrs. Gray conceded gracefully. “Well, you can’t blame me for trying. I have been with you almost since the beginning, you know.”

  He took a brownie. “I know and you didn’t get to see them until they were finished then either. Nothing’s changed.”

  “Oh, but I think it has, dear.” She offered Jolie the tray with a very pointed look.

  What’d I do? Jolie was, after all, following the woman’s implied orders.

  Maybe she’d misunderstood.

  Not wanting to face that possibility, Jolie located her sandals and slid them on. “It’s almost lunch time. I better head into the kitchen to get started.”

  “Oh but I wouldn’t mind, dear—”

  “I know, Mrs. Gray, but after four hours of sitting here, it’s past time for my muscles to earn their keep.” Scooping up Boots, Jolie made a beeline for the door.

  She’d let Todd explain to Mrs. Gray exactly why it was her hair looked like a tornado had blown through the studio, and why his shirt was hiked in the back.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Bright and early—too early—Monday morning, Jolie was in her usual pose staring at the window trim, a repeat of the weekend. Seemed that the Grays liked to spend a bit of every day with Todd. It could be because their son lived farther away than an easy driving distance and they were lonely, but Jolie was betting Mrs. Gray was working on keeping the new chef out of the kitchen and in Todd’s line of vision as much as possible.

  Sadly, while she might be in his line of vision, it was with a canvas between them. At least the tedium of modeling allowed her to plot out the rest of her manuscript. If only she could bring her notebook and pencils, but he’d get suspicious. As if anyone had cookbook ideas burning in their mind with such intensity that they had to get them on paper before the ideas crumbled.

  Unfortunately, she couldn’t explain a burning desire to write without blowing her cover. But when they were finished for the day, she was fully intending to put Annie, her heroine, and Tom in some pretty interesting conflicts, maybe even—

  “Jolie, can you push your shirt off your shoulder?”

  Remove clothing? Now there was a new twist.

  “Um, why?” Not that she was opposed to the idea, but just to get all the information upfront before she made a complete boob of herself. Or showed a complete boob.

  “I’ve got your neckline curving just right, but I want to include your collarbone and I need the perspective as it relates to your shoulder.”

  So clinical, yet she was melting again. Him, her, body parts, disrobing… This would be so good in her manuscript—if her brain cells didn’t fry before she got to the notebook.

  She pulled the little cap sleeve down her shoulder, but the neckline started choking her.

  “Perfect,” said Todd.

  Not if she wanted to breathe it wasn’t.

  “Todd,” she gasped, “it’s choking me.”

  Really, the man could look more concerned as she gasped her last breath on this earth.

  “Can you hold it for just a minute or two please? I’ve almost got it.”

  Obliging Jolie tried.

  “You’re turning blue.”

  Obviously not successfully.

  “Breathe, Jolie.”

  She shimmied the cap sleeve back into place, allowing the neckline to reclaim its position and Lungs inhaled.

  “Did you get it?” She rubbed where the neckline had chafed her throat.

  “No,” he sighed and it was a heartbreaker. “I didn’t have enough time.”

  “Can’t you just draw a line with a little hook on the end?”

  He quirked that eyebrow again and her tummy shifted. “How about if you stick to cooking and I’ll stick to painting? Of course I can’t draw a line with a little hook on the end. Your body’s not a roadmap.”

  Though it could lead to some interesting places.

  But she was mum on the subject. Which could be because she was incapable of speech at the thought of him discovering those interesting places.

  “No, I need the image. Maybe if I were used to painting the human form, but it’s been a long time.” He looked around the studio. “Maybe if we… ” He left the easel to rummage in a pile of drop cloths by the sofa. “Aha.” He flourished a—gee, what a surprise—drop cloth her way.

  She arced an eyebrow at him. (Hmmm, she’d picked up that little trick of his.)

  “For you.” He gave the cloth a little fling like he was shaking water from it.

  “Obviously. The reason is unclear, though.”

  “To wear.”

  “Sorry, Todd, but I believe my budget allows for something slightly more expensive and with more coverage than a towel. I may have lost everything in the fire, but I believe clothing can be purchased.”

  He exhaled. “Jolie, for today. Right now. Take off your shirt and wrap this around you. Then I can see your collarbone, the shadows there, and get the proper perspective to your shoulder.”

  He was looking pretty pleased with himself, but Jolie was still at “take off your shirt.” Somehow she’d hoped if this day ever came that there’d be a few murmured words, perhaps a kiss or two, maybe even some help with said shirt, but apparently not. She got the doctor’s orders version. Take off your shirt and cough.

  Did wonderful things for her libido.

  Not.

  “Is this really necessary?” she grumbled as she rose from the sofa.

  “Yes, it is. Now where’s Good Sport Jolie today?” He teased a reluctant smile to her face.

  “She wants to go shopping with Spendthrift Jolie and make sure they have enough of a wardrobe to never need to wear a drop cloth again.” She yanked her new apparel out of his hands. “Turn around.”r />
  Boots was asleep on the comfy chair—apparently Mr. Meddler didn’t find nudity a reason to interrupt them. That cat’s priorities were a bit skewed.

  She shrugged out of her shirt, whipped the bra off and the towel around her in one motion so quick it’d make Boots’s head spin if he were even watching. But the little turncoat was snoring.

  “Okay, I’m ready.” She resumed her position on the sofa.

  Todd turned around. “Grea—”

  He stopped mid-word and she stopped mid-breath at the heat burning in his eyes. She knew that look. Had seen it up close and personal.

  The silence in the room was booming.

  Todd recovered first, though the state of that recovery was in serious question. He snapped his jaw shut, ran a hand over his mouth, then puffed out a long breath. “Okay, then. That should do it.”

  Do it? Do what? Naughty Girl could conjure a whole lot “it”s to do.

  “Now, ahem, Jolie.” Todd settled on his stool. “Can you, um, lower your left shoulder a little? That’s it. Now roll it forward, yeah, like that. Tilt your chin up and back. No, a little lower. There. Um, could you, um, drape a few strands of your hair over your shoulder? Not that many. Okay, that’s good.” He shifted, resting a heel on the rung of the stool. “Could you, that is, could you have it, move it a little to the right? You know, sort of resting across your, um, breast, rather than alongside it?”

  He picked a good spot for her hair. It could cover the nipple poking through the thin fabric. The nipple he’d fondled—

  “Like this?” She willed Naughty Girl away.

  He swallowed hard. “Yeah,” he rasped out, “that’ll do.”

  It sure did “do.” She was a mass of fluttering nerve endings about to combust. And if his blazing green eyes were anything to go by, he was right there with her.

  And she did wish he were there with her. But he was ten feet away behind a tripod of wood and canvas and charcoal. An amazing barrier when she thought about it. So flimsy physically, but metaphorically as strong as a castle wall.