Page 24 of The Muse (Beautiful Magic 1)
“Promise me?”
I pause, considering her pinched brows and the shift in her tone, and my nod is weighty, a vow in itself. “I promise.”
She places her hand on my cheek, just where I’d held it that day at Remy’s, and trails it along my jaw as she steps away. “Then I will see you tomorrow, Julien.”
“Tomorrow,” I echo. She walks back to her painting but stops and turns with her hand on the frame as if remembering something. Before she can speak, I say, “And I’ll bring food. One of everything.”
“Julien, no!” she exclaims. “I didn’t mean everything all on the same day!”
I tease, “You should say what you mean, Clio. Now I will have to eat all the sweets myself.”
She shakes her head with a little roll of her eyes. “Then I promise to taste one of whatever you bring.” So much is conveyed in the flick of her gaze, the saucy hint of a smile on her lips as she steps into the frame. “In which case, I am eager to see how you plan to indulge me.”
Her demeanor changes slightly as she settles into place, softens to something sweeter and terribly earnest. “Also, thank you, Julien.”
She says it with such appreciation, as if I’ve accomplished some tremendous deed for her. Anything I’ve done seems inconsequential next to what she’s done for me.
I don’t simply mean the wild beating in my heart, or the sizzling of my skin. But what she’s done for my mind—she’s proven I’m not mad.
Not in the sense that I can’t tell reality from fantasy.
But maybe I’m mad in another way.
Because one date, one night, one stroll through the museum by her side and I’m absolutely mad for more of her.
“Good night, Clio.”
She blows me a kiss then pulls up the gauzy hem of her skirt, the lace edges brushing against the painted irises, until she is immobile once more, leaving me dizzy with want.
I start home in a haze, feeling like I’m drunk or dreaming. Clio is imprinted on my skin; I feel faint traces of her. I’m so absorbed by the lingering sensation that I don’t notice the man sprawled on the museum steps until I’m almost past him. In a worn sweatshirt and jeans, he could be a vagrant or an artist—or both. Once I see that he’s lounging and not injured, I continue on my way, wrapped up again in the vision of Clio and the promise of seeing her again.
9
The next day takes a century.
Classes go on like dreams I can’t wake from.
Time taunts me.
Every instant I resist looking at the time on my phone, I’m battling my own impatience.
All I want is to see her again.
And when time finally takes pity on me, and the sun mercifully dips below the horizon, I go to the museum.
The only place I want to be becomes the only place that exists for me as I wait in the gallery, her gallery, for the last straggling patrons to leave. I keep my sketch pad out as an excuse for the security guards, but after their obligatory check, I put it away. I want to capture Clio with my mind because I’m sure my pencil isn’t up to the task.
At last, the young woman emerges from the garden, and my heart slams against my rib cage with excitement.
“Fancy meeting you here,” she says with a cheeky grin.
I offer her my hand again, and she takes it. “I hope I didn’t keep you waiting too long,” I tease.
“Only all day,” she answers in the same vein.
I laugh, she smiles, and we both look at our clasped hands then back up at each other. As our eyes catch, my smile slips away, but not my pleasure in this moment. Her mouth softens too, and mixed with the sparkle of humor in her eyes, there’s a hint of desire.
It spurs me on, and I lean closer, dusting a soft kiss against her cheek. “Hi.”
“Hi.” Her voice is breathy and beautiful, and I’d wait another endless day to hear it again.
“Look! The sheet is messy on Olympia’s bed.” Clio points to Manet’s Olympia, where a small bit of white satin fabric hangs out of the canvas and over the gilded frame.
I feign an aggravated sigh. “I tell them to clean their rooms and put their toys away, but they never listen to me.”
“May I do it?” Clio asks.
“Be my guest.”
She hands me the takeout container with half of the île flottante still in it. The meringue had sunk into the caramel by the time Clio emerged, but she declared it delicious, which is all that matters.
It’s frightening how quickly pleasing Clio has become all that matters to me.
She gathers up the runaway sheet, and I notice I’m holding my breath, worried it won’t return to its spot, thinking of Rembrandt’s Bathsheba, bulging from the canvas. But the bedsheets behave, and Clio tucks them neatly into place.
