made some good points, I don’t deny it. But it’s still my favorite painting.” I reached for her, and this time, didn’t pause at the invisible barrier she erected around herself. Brushing her cheek, my chest tightened realizing it was softer than I imagined. “Because it drew me to you.”
Belle whistled. “Damn, dude. What a line.” She pulled back. “Would you have laid that one on me if I hadn’t chased you away at that gallery? Gotta say, it’d make most girls go weak-kneed.”
I dropped my hand. “But not you.”
She nodded, smiling wryly. “I’m immune to your kind.”
“Statues?” I guessed.
“Exactly.”
“What makes me a statue?”
“You’re beautiful.”
“I’m beaut—? That’s a bad thing?”
“It’s the worst thing,” she replied. “You know the story of sirens? Mythical sea creatures of such otherworldly beauty, men would jump to their deaths the minute they open their mouths. There’s a cost for being more gorgeous than anyone has a right to be. The problem is other people pay it.”
I nodded along. “That is... the batshit-craziest thing I’ve ever heard.”
Belle barked a laugh. It startled her. Surprise darkened her eyes as she laughed and kept laughing. The sweetest, soft giggles pealed from her lips and the urge to kiss them came on so strong, I gripped the bench to hold me back. This sad, angry girl was as unpredictable as she was the very beauty she despised. She might kiss me back or she could break my nose.
“But it’s true,” she said when she sobered. “Pretty boys are the meanest.”
“Pretty boys have been mean to you?” I trailed a finger down her arm, traveling over the goose bumps popping on her flesh as I made them. I slipped under her wrist and gently turned her palm up. “Then my kind is also fatally stupid.”
“No argument here.”
“I’m taking a lot of abuse in this conversation.” I traced crisscrossing lines on her palm, holding my breath in anticipation of a smack. For some reason, she didn’t stop me. “Let me prove to you that my lack of artistic ability and fondness for Cinderella are my only two flaws.”
“No one has only two.” She slipped her hand free of me, crossed her legs, and folded them on top. “But I’m listening.”
I looked around. “Right now? I figured I’d list my achievements and characteristics next Friday night, over dinner, before or after the movie. The standard way.”
“A date?” She said the word like it was foreign. “I don’t date, Desai.”
“You don’t date?” I repeated. “What, anyone? Ever?”
“Correct.”
“And you don’t want to get married?”
She clicked her tongue. “Correct again.”
“Are you angling to be a bride of Christ?”
She laughed. I didn’t imagine I’d be this good at making her do that. “If you’re asking if I’m joining a convent, the answer is also no.”
“Okay, then we’re getting somewhere.”
“Are we?” she asked, cocking her head.
“Yes. You don’t want me as a boyfriend and we’ve established you’re not here to snag me as a fiancé. If I can’t offer you my eternal love and commitment”—I threw my hands out—“would you accept my body?”
“Holy shit, Desai,” she cried. “You’re offering up sex five minutes after I learn your name.”
“Pretty much. You know my name. We’re not strangers anymore.”
“Everyone is allowed to know your name,” she said. “But not everyone can sleep with you, or at least, not just anyone can sleep with me.” The devilish smirk returned. “If you want into this exclusive club, you’ll have to give up more than the scraps you share with the masses.”
“Like what exactly?”
“A beautiful, smooth-talking siren like you.” She rose to her feet. “You’ll figure it out.”
“Where are you going?”
“Where I belong,” she replied as she stepped off the terrace. “In the garden.”
Chapter Two
Belle
Preston trailed me along the stone path. Of course he did. Sex was on the table now and he wouldn’t set his knife and fork down until he was satisfied.
Pretty boys are also predictable.
I peeked at him over my shoulder. But rarely as intriguing.
The way he spoke about tourists who visit galleries to pass an hour instead of taking the time to appreciate, reminded me of people walking around in scuffed Gucci sneakers, throwing their handwash-only Balenciaga sweater in the heavy cycle, or dropping their lunch on their Prada skirts. I wasn’t a fashion snob. It wasn’t the label itself so much that clothes were no less a work of art. The designer tells a story in the stitches, cuts, and lines. We should witness that story like we should in paintings and sculptures.