corrected the illustrations in my books if I didn’t think the drawings properly matched the text. Once I did it to a library book. I had to pay for the book. It took weeks to save up my allowance, so I never tried that again. But after I paid for the book, I decorated all the illustrations in it, and my parents seemed to decide I was serious and bought me sketchpads.”
They reached the top of the road, and Kesley glanced at him in concern. Despite that nasty hit and equally nasty fall earlier, he wasn’t gasping, or clutching at his shoulder. The breeze toyed with his hair, which was a couple of shades darker than hers, and the low light over the ocean caught in his eyes, bringing out the sea green. “Go on,” he said.
So she started up the steep path, noticing that he kept pace with her without any apparent difficulty.
“There isn’t much more. Money got tighter when my grandmother came to live with us, and my great-aunt was already with us, and then my uncle got a divorce and lost his job working for his wife’s family, so he moved in, along with my cousin. So I figured I had to find some way to earn my own art supplies.”
She paused, expecting him to be bored. With Nick she hadn’t even gotten that far.
“And so?” he asked.
“Well, I was always hanging around Flying Cranes. Grandma Zhao used to tend the counter a lot more, before David took over the front, and she noticed me mooning over the acrylics. They were pretty sparse with art supplies at school. She asked about my art—I showed her a sketchpad with my comics, done in crayon—she asked if I wanted to learn, and, well, here I am.”
“So you developed your own style. It’s distinctive as well as . . .” He made a gesture outward. “Appealing. I think I might have known the right terms for art appreciation, but I can’t reach them now. All I know is, yours is different, and I like it.”
“Well, I don’t know how original it is. I suspect my style is pretty much a combination of Richard Scarry and Brueghel, but painting my fantasy fairy tales makes me happy.”
“I should think they would make anyone happy.”
He sounded sincere. She smiled. “Thanks.” And she led the way off the trail onto a bluff well above the town.
“There are higher points that people can drive to, but I like this one because it’s isolated,” she said. “See, you can watch the sun setting over the water. In that direction are the mountains. Over there, when it’s really clear, like after a rain, sometimes you can see the lights of Carmel. It looks like a magic kingdom. And south, below the curve of that promontory, you can see the breakers along the shore.”
She indicated a grassy spot three or four yards from the edge. “This is where I sometimes sit and paint. I try to catch the exact color of sunset. But it changes so fast!”
“Shall we sit?” he asked, one hand absently running up to his shoulder.
So he did feel the effects of that horrible fall. “Sure,” she said, and they each sat down on the grass.
He sat within easy distance, like he was trying not to crowd her. She snuck a peek at how the low, ruddy sunset light caught in tiny pinpoints on his stubble, and lit the tips of his eyelashes. Her breath stuttered in her chest. He was so . . . gorgeous . Compelling. Mysterious.
Sexy.
Especially sexy.
“What about you? What do you do?” she asked. “You said you weren’t interested in what Marlo Evans is doing. Why are you here, then?”
“It’s supposed to be therapeutic,” he said, looking out at sea.
Kesley longed to draw his profile, and capture the sunset colors highlighting his strong cheekbones and the clean angle of his jaw. The strands of fine dark hair that fell over his forehead. She flexed her fingers. She wanted more than to draw them, she wanted to touch them.
She was so involved in looking at him that she was only aware that the pause had lengthened into a silence when he spoke again. “Call me Jameson,” he
They reached the top of the road, and Kesley glanced at him in concern. Despite that nasty hit and equally nasty fall earlier, he wasn’t gasping, or clutching at his shoulder. The breeze toyed with his hair, which was a couple of shades darker than hers, and the low light over the ocean caught in his eyes, bringing out the sea green. “Go on,” he said.
So she started up the steep path, noticing that he kept pace with her without any apparent difficulty.
“There isn’t much more. Money got tighter when my grandmother came to live with us, and my great-aunt was already with us, and then my uncle got a divorce and lost his job working for his wife’s family, so he moved in, along with my cousin. So I figured I had to find some way to earn my own art supplies.”
She paused, expecting him to be bored. With Nick she hadn’t even gotten that far.
“And so?” he asked.
“Well, I was always hanging around Flying Cranes. Grandma Zhao used to tend the counter a lot more, before David took over the front, and she noticed me mooning over the acrylics. They were pretty sparse with art supplies at school. She asked about my art—I showed her a sketchpad with my comics, done in crayon—she asked if I wanted to learn, and, well, here I am.”
“So you developed your own style. It’s distinctive as well as . . .” He made a gesture outward. “Appealing. I think I might have known the right terms for art appreciation, but I can’t reach them now. All I know is, yours is different, and I like it.”
“Well, I don’t know how original it is. I suspect my style is pretty much a combination of Richard Scarry and Brueghel, but painting my fantasy fairy tales makes me happy.”
“I should think they would make anyone happy.”
He sounded sincere. She smiled. “Thanks.” And she led the way off the trail onto a bluff well above the town.
“There are higher points that people can drive to, but I like this one because it’s isolated,” she said. “See, you can watch the sun setting over the water. In that direction are the mountains. Over there, when it’s really clear, like after a rain, sometimes you can see the lights of Carmel. It looks like a magic kingdom. And south, below the curve of that promontory, you can see the breakers along the shore.”
She indicated a grassy spot three or four yards from the edge. “This is where I sometimes sit and paint. I try to catch the exact color of sunset. But it changes so fast!”
“Shall we sit?” he asked, one hand absently running up to his shoulder.
So he did feel the effects of that horrible fall. “Sure,” she said, and they each sat down on the grass.
He sat within easy distance, like he was trying not to crowd her. She snuck a peek at how the low, ruddy sunset light caught in tiny pinpoints on his stubble, and lit the tips of his eyelashes. Her breath stuttered in her chest. He was so . . . gorgeous . Compelling. Mysterious.
Sexy.
Especially sexy.
“What about you? What do you do?” she asked. “You said you weren’t interested in what Marlo Evans is doing. Why are you here, then?”
“It’s supposed to be therapeutic,” he said, looking out at sea.
Kesley longed to draw his profile, and capture the sunset colors highlighting his strong cheekbones and the clean angle of his jaw. The strands of fine dark hair that fell over his forehead. She flexed her fingers. She wanted more than to draw them, she wanted to touch them.
She was so involved in looking at him that she was only aware that the pause had lengthened into a silence when he spoke again. “Call me Jameson,” he
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