Page 23 of The Muse (Beautiful Magic 1)
We lapse into silence side by side as we admire the painting. She shifts her body closer to me. This near, she’s intoxicating. “Then we’ll go together someday,” she says, surprising me again.
I glance at her and find her looking back at me. That word, “together,” does a number on me, especially combined with “someday,” which implies a future date. A future together.
“Anytime, any day,” I promise. I don’t examine how or when. I just pretend it would be possible and then enjoy the heady, swooping feeling that maybe she likes me too.
After a long, sweet moment in front of Van Gogh’s Starry Night, she grabs my hand and says, “Show me more.”
I do, and we don’t stop until she has seen haystacks and operas, mirrors and pheasants, doctors and patients. When we come back to her gallery, it’s nearly midnight. I hate that I have to go home, and I’m dragging my feet to draw out the night.
We pause outside her gallery as if I’m walking her home from a date. She studies me, head tilted in speculation.
“You love them all,” she says—not asking, but confirming—and I nod.
“Yes. I do.”
Her head tilts the other way as she asks, “You’ve been coming to see me, haven’t you?”
I’m not surprised she knows, but I have so many questions.
“Could you see me? Hear me?” I ask.
“You’re the first thing I’ve been able to see or hear on the other side of the frame,” she says. I can’t tell if that’s frustration or relief in her voice. Maybe both. “I saw you in that room. You heard me, didn’t you?”
“Yes,” I say, remembering every encounter with her at Remy’s house.
“I wanted to come out sooner.” There’s so much longing in her voice now. Is it longing for what could have been? For the years she missed?
She moves a step closer, until we’re inches apart. “As soon as I saw you, I tried to get out. It was the closest I’ve ever come to managing it.” She gestures to our surroundings. “Until now, obviously.”
“I’m glad you’re able to come out now.”
“Me too. You’re not like anyone I’ve ever met. You asked questions about me. You talked to me and made everything better while you were there.”
I smile slightly. “I was thinking the same thing about you.”
For a moment, the question flashes through my head like a neon sign—what are you thinking?
It’s a valid question—how can I be so attracted to a painting?
But perhaps the answer is in front of me. She’s not a painting. She’s a person.
And that’s really all that matters, I suppose.
“‘What are you like, woman behind the paint?’ That’s what you asked me.”
“You remember,” I say. I’m sure she’s some sort of enchantress, and she has put me completely under her spell. “Who are you?”
“I’m Clio. I’m just an ordinary young woman.”
“No . . .” I reach up and brush a wayward chestnut curl behind her ear. “Who are you?”
Her gaze dances away and then back, and then she grins. “Julien . . .” she tsks, and it’s the sexiest thing ever, her chiding me in that shy but bold, joking but not kind of way. “I have to keep some secrets. You don’t want to learn everything about me on the first . . .” She seems at a loss for the word she wants. “What do you call it these days?”
“Date?” Hoping she feels the same way, I trail the back of my hand down the silken skin of her arm and say, “First date?”
“First date,” she echoes as if trying on the words. “Yes, that’s what I mean. I quite like the sound of that.” She tilts her head the other way. “How does this compare? Was touring the museum a good first date?”
“The best ever,” I tell her.
She nods decisively. “And for me as well.”
The admission makes my head spin, and I look at her, feeling helpless and wobbly and really, terribly happy. I save some questions for later, and shake my head, bemused. “Where have you been for the last century?”
She points to the gallery where her gilded frame rests. “On the other side of that painting.”
We’re back to her frame now, and I regard it with curiosity. “What’s on the other side?”
“Tulips and hollyhocks, pansies and irises.” Her voice is pure, her French is impeccable, but she doesn’t have the accent of a native. She doesn’t have any accent.
“You don’t sound like you’re from here.”
“You doubt my French?” She places a palm against her chest as if mortally offended.
I hold up my thumb and forefinger a scant inch apart. “Maybe a little.”
“Do you think I’m French?”
I shake my head. “I don’t know what you are. Or who you are. At least tell me where you’re from.”
She shakes her head. “You’ll come back tomorrow?”
“For our second date? I wouldn’t miss it.”
