then.” She started to brush past him and into the hotel lobby, but he caught her arm.
“Let me buy you dinner?”
“No, thank you.”
“C’mon. I want to ask you about your art.”
She gaped up at him in amazement. “I’m tired. I want peace and quiet. Why in the world would I let you browbeat me about my work?”
“I don’t intend to browbeat. I have honest, serious questions. This is your opportunity to show me what an idiot I am.”
“Now that has some appeal,” she admitted.
He grinned. “If you want peace and quiet, then walk with me down to the Water Gardens. It’s only a couple of blocks and it makes you forget you’re in the middle of a city. It’s a shame not to enjoy weather like this. Why don’t you go up and change and I’ll get the restaurant here to make us sandwiches?”
She hesitated, wondering why she even considered it, but finally agreed to go. “Give me ten minutes.”
“You won’t stand me up, will you?”
“While the idea amuses me, no. I’m not rude.”
Upstairs, she pulled on jeans, a knit shirt, and sneakers. The casual clothes immediately relaxed her, and she decided she was glad she’d accepted his offer. She’d intended to visit the Water Gardens on previous trips to Fort Worth, but she’d never followed through, mainly because she seldom had free time during the day and she wouldn’t go into any park—no matter how closely patrolled—by herself after dark.
Sage took the stairs down and spied Colt waiting for her by the elevator. The man truly was hot. He’d been fine to look at wearing jeans. In a suit, he was GQ-cover-model pretty.
Seeing her, he grinned, and she decided that the wink of a dimple at the corner of his mouth made him dangerous. She’d always been a sucker for dimples.
He’d come up with a canvas backpack that he carried slung over one shoulder, and his suit coat and tie had disappeared. The sleeves on his white dress shirt were turned up, the top two buttons released. Despite her best intentions to resist his charm, her stomach did a little flip-flop.
“Ready?” he asked.
Sounds of laughter and music floated on the evening air, and they walked without exchanging conversation. By the time they approached the entrance of the park, Sage’s appetite had returned. “What’s for supper?”
“Turkey sandwiches.”
“Cool.”
Colt placed his hand at the small of her back and guided her toward the Active Pool, designed as a canyon lined with rushing water. Rectangular stone blocks created a staircase of viewing platforms that allowed water to travel beneath visitors who descended to the bottom pool, almost forty feet down. Nighttime lighting made the spot breathtakingly lovely. “This is nice.”
“Yeah, it is. I love the sound of rushing water. It relaxes me.” He pointed toward the lower pool. “Would you like to go down there to sit and eat, or do you prefer it up here?”
“Here is good.”
He led her around the edge of the stone canyon to a spot away from another couple and a family with two young children also enjoying the site. They sat, and he unzipped his backpack and handed her a paper-wrapped sandwich. “So, Anderson, talk to me about your work. Why fairies?”
“Why not fairies?” she fired back. “They are fun, fancy, fantasy. They play to my strengths as an artist. I get to experiment with color and motion.” She gestured toward the water spilling down the steps. “What has the architect achieved with this creation? Speaking for myself, his work inspires me. It soothes me. It speaks to my senses and it makes me smile. I’ve had people use those same words in response to my pixie paintings.”
He nodded. “I heard people say it tonight, that your work makes them smile.”
“That’s a wonderful compliment.”
“Yeah, it is. I’m not saying otherwise.”
Sage took a bite of her sandwich, then sipped from the bottle of water he’d provided. “No, you used the words okay and nice.”
“And pretty. I said they were pretty, too.”
“Careful there, Rafferty,” she drawled. “Your effusive praise will embarrass me.”
“Hey now. For a creative person, aren’t you being a bit thin-skinned? Isn’t putting up with criticism part of the job?”
She wrinkled her nose and shrugged. “Frankly, that depends on who is doing the criticizing and whether or not I respect him.”
“Zing.” He made a show of wincing.
“Look, I will admit that finances play a part in what I do. Making one’s living as an artist requires a measure of practicality to coexist with the artistic muse. I