like to do?”
She opened her eyes but continued to hold his hand on her face, their bodies now close together. “I love to read.”
“Me too,” he said. “What kinds of books?”
“All kinds, but mostly biographies, especially artist biographies.” She sat up abruptly, and his hand fell to his side. “Oh! I know what’s next on our date.” She was so enthusiastic when she was excited about something, he thought.
“You’re planning this date as you go, aren’t you?”
She brought her finger up to his nose and poked it. “You’re a smart gazillionaire.” Then she laughed, took his hand, helped him up, and then eagerly led him back to his car. There was just something about her, he thought. The way she was bubbly and excited about the little things in life was so refreshing and made him want to see life through her eyes. It wasn’t that she wore rose-colored glasses—after all, she worked at a bar—but nothing seemed to bring her down. It made him want to stay inside that bubble of hers and shield her from anything that would make her unhappy. But at the same time, he wanted to absorb all her positive energy and gather strength from it.
—
“What the hell are you doing?” Enzo whispered. It was already beginning to get dark out, and he’d driven them to the local library, as she’d instructed.
“Shh!” she said as she tiptoed to the side of the building.
“Jamie Lynn,” he whispered, but she was too far ahead of him.
“Come on, help me up,” she said, her hand on his shoulder, as she tried to look into the window.
“Are you crazy?”
“Come on, live a little!” She jumped up but wasn’t tall enough to grab the ledge.
He groaned, not believing what he was about to do. In spite of his best judgment, he grabbed her waist and hoisted her up. She grasped the ledge and he pushed her feet up as she crawled through the window. He’d never done anything illegal. Nothing. He hadn’t even partaken in underage drinking when he was younger. She poked her head out the window. “You coming?”
Fuck it. He jumped up and pulled himself through the window.
She grabbed his hand and pulled him further into the library. “Don’t you love the smell of old books?” She grabbed her phone from her pocket, opened the flashlight app, and went in search of something.
“You know, now they have these things called e-readers and apps for your phone, and you could download a book for like two bucks.”
“Ha-ha. I’ll have you know that I have a Kindle and a Nook as well as an iPad, Pretty Boy,” she teased. “But this is an art book. It’s not the same. You need to touch it. See it in person.” She kept scanning the spines of the books. “Aha! Here we go.” She pulled a book out, sat down on the floor cross-legged, and started flipping through the pages. He rolled his eyes before proceeding to sit down on the floor with her.
“Look here!” She pointed animatedly. “This is my favorite. It’s called Three Studies of a Dancer. It’s by—”
“Edgar Degas,” he said, finishing her sentence. She turned her face to look at him, her eyebrows pulled together.
“You know Degas? They’re mostly ballerinas.”
“There was an exhibit some years back at the National Gallery of Art in Washington. I was in town and had the opportunity to see it. I thought his sculptures were beautiful.”
The way she looked at him at that moment…something changed. Something clicked. She looked away, almost shyly, and turned the page of the book. “Did you see Little Dancer?”
“Yes,” he replied. Again he noticed that she was looking at him differently. Her eyes were wide, almost in wonderment, and her delicate smile was sincere and sweet. It was as if she was seeing him for the first time. She blinked a few times before turning her gaze back to the book.
“Maybe someday.” She said it so quietly he barely heard her.
“I have to admit, I wouldn’t have pegged you as a fan of Degas. I’d have thought you’d like something more abstract.” He playfully pulled her magenta-colored hair. “Or, something more colorful. Like Matisse or something.” He brushed her cheeks with his thumb as she looked back up at him. “One day I’ll take you to an exhibit.”
The soft look quickly dissipated, and as quickly as her fortress had cracked, it was back up and stronger. She cleared her throat. “Laying it on pretty thick, aren’t you, Pretty Boy?”