Read Online The Artist and Me by Hannah; Kay - Free Book Online Page A

ears and blue eyes sparkling with excitement. She stood, grinning widely, and pulled me into a hug. “I’m so excited,” she declared and I laughed. She’d never been more of a cheerleader than now. I could see her in a tiny purple mini skirt and white sweater, bouncing around with her pom-poms and giggling like a schoolgirl. It all made sense.
    “About?” I asked, as we slid back into the booth. There was one steaming cup of coffee on either side of the booth. I smiled. She knew me well.
    She laughed, cradling the mug between her delicate fingers. “You know about what!” She was grinning widely, wide eyes expectant.
    I shook my head. “Try me.”
    A giggle slipped past her pink lips. “You’re going on a date with Lucas!”
    “Yes… And?” I inquired, just to be difficult.
    She pushed my shoulder playfully. “Stop that!”
    I smiled. “Stop what?”
    She rolled her eyes.
     
    * * * *
     
    My arms slipped into the lacy material of my favorite white sundress and I smiled at my reflection. The dress tied in at the waist before jetting out to just above my knee. It was suspended by thin spaghetti straps and cut straight across the top. I guess what I liked about it was its simplicity.
    My ginger hair was curled, but fishtail braided over my shoulder. I knew it would fall out eventually, but for now it was soft and beautiful and great. I didn’t wear makeup, but I did pull from my coat pocket—my coat was on a hanger nearby, always close at hand in case a getaway was rendered necessary—a thin tube of ChapStick to lather my dry lips with the scent of cherry and add just enough shine that I looked like a girl. I slipped my feet into a pair of well-worn white ballet flats.
    The doorbell rang.
    Let the games begin.

Chapter Nine
     
     
     
    Lucas
     
    I’d gone from Julie’s house straight back to work, grinning the whole ride. I strode into the office confidently to sit at my desk. My fingers gripped the pencil that had been ready and waiting—to take coffee orders or messages, of course—in front of my computer. I grabbed the stack of copy paper—unfortunately, the only paper within sight—and started scribbling.
     
    She blew into town like a cyclone. No one was prepared for it either. I heard Frank Goodman had a stroke when he first saw her. Legs a mile long, ginger hair that curled delicately to the small of her back and a smile that could generate enough energy to power Carltonville for months on end, she was easily a knockout.
    Unlike the other girls at Carltonville High School, though, she simply was what she was—a fact that caused the girls to hate her and the guys to want her. And by some stroke of luck, she was choosing to give me, the quiet writer guy, a chance. It didn’t add up, but I wasn’t going to dispute it. She was something to behold and for one night—four or five precious hours in time—she was choosing to let me in. I just prayed to the great God in heaven that I didn’t screw it up.
     
    “Writing about my daughter, Mr. Grant?” Mr. Swift’s voice wafted to me through my daze. “Writing is a very intimate thing. A very wise man once said that a writer falls for those who inspire him or her into writing.”
    I swallowed and slowly looked up at him. “Who said that, sir?”
    He grinned. There were little wrinkles around his eyes when he smiled so broadly, betraying his age. “Me.” He pulled up a rolling chair beside mine, grin growing as my heartbeat accelerated. His smile told me he knew I was nervous. It also told me that he knew I knew that he knew I was nervous. From one journalist to another, communication could easily be done with no verbal garb at all, but what fun would that be in manuscript or otherwise? Always second guessing the conversation and making gibberish of it. He knew better than to rely solely upon this telepathic rule of journalism and saved that for the articles. “I don’t mind you dating my daughter.” There was a pause, my ears perking up in