Page 38 of The Muse (Beautiful Magic 1)
I laugh too, because I’m ticklish, then catch her wrist. Only, instead of pulling her away, I hold her hand against my side for just a moment. “I walk a lot,” I say when I let her go. I like her touch, like even better that she initiated it. I distract myself by telling her, “Walked a lot today, actually. All over the city. Crazy day,” I add, shaking my head.
“Why? What happened?”
“More like what didn’t happen. First, this guy showed up claiming he owns your painting.” Clio’s eyes widen, her brows climbing. “But the same guy is connected to a pair that have been acting suspicious in Le Marais, so my friends had been tailing them, and when we put our information together, we figured out they’ve been forging documents.”
I notice her expression and realize she could use some reassurance. “We found the fake papers, though, so that’s not an issue anymore. But Sophie and Remy—my friends—think there’s a curse on your painting.”
“A curse. Interesting.” The vulnerability in her rounded eyes fades, and she’s veiled and private again.
I’ve learned that pushing her when she gets enigmatic like this does no good, and I haven’t gotten to the best part yet. “But wait, there’s more.” I allow myself a tiny dramatic pause. “I found out that I can draw things and they come to life.”
With that, she’s lively again, eyes bright, voice rising with excitement. “Show me! Show me now.”
“Really?” Her enthusiasm surprises me.
“You think I don’t want to see that?”
That’s just what I think. She’s seen much more impressive things. She is one of those things. But I don’t remind her of that when she’s looking so eager.
I reach into my messenger bag for my notebook, pencils, and the pink polka-dotted calf. “Okay, what do you want me to draw for you?”
“Hmm. Not flowers. I’ve seen plenty of those. And with all this deliciousness”—she sweeps her hand toward the food—“we don’t need chocolates.”
I glance at her slender neck. “A necklace, maybe?”
She looks sharply at her bracelets, one on each wrist. There’s barely any space between the metal and her skin, and I don’t see a clasp on them. “I detest jewelry.”
“So that’s a no on flowers, jewelry, and chocolates for you.”
Suddenly, she sits up straighter. “Wait! I’ve got it. Do you know what I desperately want?”
I know I want to give it to her. “Tell me.”
“A new pair of shoes.” She pulls up the hem of her long skirt, revealing a pair of formfitting beige slippers. “I want something fun. Something modern. But I have no idea what’s in style. Do you?”
Shaking my head, I chuckle at the idea. “I don’t really follow shoe fashion. Or any fashion, actually.” Then I remember, vaguely, the shoe store window in the Marais earlier, and I take up a pencil. “What about some short boots?”
Clio’s eyes twinkle with delight. “Yes, boots.” She taps her chin. “Can they be red? A cherry red?”
“Like your lips?”
“Julien,” she says playfully, but she’s not embarrassed so much as . . . enticed.
“Well, that’s an accurate description of your kissable lips.”
“Cherry red after you’ve kissed me senseless, maybe, like you do every night,” she says, in a feathery voice that makes me want to say screw the drawing, and just screw . . .
But I’ll take my time with her.
I’ll be a gentleman. I sense she needs that. Time.
And I want to give her more than just shivers, more than just bee-stung lips. I want to give her wonderful nights.
And shoes.
I want to give her shoes.
I press a soft kiss to her lips, then focus on the artistic mission at hand.
I start to draw. “I have to warn you though. They’ll only last for a few minutes. That’s how it went with the key and cat hair anyway,” I say, flashing back on the first night the cat hair appeared, then vanished. The same lifespan applied to the key. So I’ve got to imagine these shoes will be temporary too.
Imagine.
Seems so much of my life is imagined. But yet, it’s as real as the shoes are about to become.
“Then I will enjoy them for all of those minutes,” she says with a grin.
I sketch out a pair of shoes, with Clio giving me directions like I’m a police sketch artist. Redder, higher, and not such a pointy toe. “Like this?”
“Perfect.”
“Here goes.” I tap out a sprinkle of the Muses’ dust onto the drawing and trace the shoes with my fingertips. Seconds later, they become three-dimensional.
Clio brings her palm to her mouth. “That’s amazing.” She takes off her slippers and pulls on the boots, then stands and twirls, holding up her skirt to show me the shoes.
"They fit perfectly,” she says with wild delight. “I feel like Cinderella.”
And I feel like a rock star. “You look stunning and ready for a night on the town as a modern, stylish, sexy Cinderella.”
