insulted her.
He was a real prince. “Please stay.”
“ Why don’t you just give them an interview and have it over and done with?” she asked, re-positioning the napkin after a few seconds’ consideration.
“ Because I don’t think it’s anyone’s business but mine how I spend my days or what I do with my life. Talking about her isn’t going to bring her back.”
No, but painting might.
He shoved the thought from his head. Painting wouldn’t bring Trista back, it’d bring it back. The shock, the anguish, the desolation.
He couldn’t go through that again. He just wanted to move on with the rest of his life.
***
Jolie jabbed another forkful of scallop. She plopped it into her mouth, then grabbed her napkin to spit it into. Too cold. Great, she couldn’t even enjoy her first—and probably last now that it’d forever be associated with his suspicions —meal at this place. How dare Todd insinuate—
But what about the novel?
That was different. It wasn’t as if anyone would know it was him when it got published. If it got published; there were no guarantees. By then, she’d be long gone anyway, and this would be just one in a string of assignments. No one would ever know Todd was the inspiration.
Uh huh .
She refused to feel guilty about something she hadn’t yet done, so Naughty Girl could just keep quiet.
“ Well, hello there!” exclaimed a chipper voice at her side.
Mr. Griff? What was he doing here?
Well, thank goodness for it because the last thing she needed to be doing was wrestling with her conscience about something she might or might not do at some point in the future, cluing Todd in to the fact that she might not be what he thought she was. Or maybe she really was what Todd thought she was, thereby getting herself fired for something she hadn’t even done yet.
“ Miss Gardener?”
“ Hi,” she said, turning all perky, as if she hadn’t just had one of the heaviest discussions of her life, complete with unwarranted—sort of—guilt complex. “What brings you here, Mr. Griff? Are you meeting someone for dinner?” And how’d he get past the bouncers?
He slapped his leg and laughed as if she’d said the funniest thing he’d ever heard. “Oh, no.” He wiped the corner of his eye. “I came to give, er, get something I left behind. And there it is.”
He scurried over to a bench behind her beneath the pretty white Christmas lights, his serviceable black shoes clicking along the deck, retrieving something large, flat, and rectangular. He stuffed it under his arm then scampered back. He always seemed to be moving about with new verbs she’d never really thought of before. At the grocery store he’d clambered off the floor, now it was scurrying and scampering. What would he try next? Scuttling?
“ Who’s he?” Todd asked, his eyes narrowed.
Great. Now he was back to wondering if she was involved in some covert spy mission. “Relax. That’s Mr. Griff. The one who gave me the book. Not a reporter.”
Mr. Griff reached them with his large, rectangular something.
“ What on earth is that, Mr. Griff?” Jolie asked.
“ Curiosity killed the cat, Cat.” He wagged a finger at her.
“ Her name is Jolie,” Todd corrected.
The little guy had a cat-ate-the-cream grin. “Her middle name is Catherine.”
Todd looked at Jolie who could only shrug, clueless how Mr. Griff knew.
“ So what is that, Mr. Griff?” She nudged the thing.
“ Oh.” He swept it from under his arm as if it were a European crown jewel. “It’s a book on Hans Holbein.”
“ Holbein the Younger?” Todd asked.
Who the heck was Hans Holbein the Younger and why did Todd suddenly find this conversation interesting?
“ Yes,” Mr. Griff answered Todd, turning slightly and flipping the book open. “He’s very talented, don’t you think?”
She craned her neck to look across the table. A book of paintings—but not landscapes like Todd’s. No, these were all portraits. They looked like
He was a real prince. “Please stay.”
“ Why don’t you just give them an interview and have it over and done with?” she asked, re-positioning the napkin after a few seconds’ consideration.
“ Because I don’t think it’s anyone’s business but mine how I spend my days or what I do with my life. Talking about her isn’t going to bring her back.”
No, but painting might.
He shoved the thought from his head. Painting wouldn’t bring Trista back, it’d bring it back. The shock, the anguish, the desolation.
He couldn’t go through that again. He just wanted to move on with the rest of his life.
***
Jolie jabbed another forkful of scallop. She plopped it into her mouth, then grabbed her napkin to spit it into. Too cold. Great, she couldn’t even enjoy her first—and probably last now that it’d forever be associated with his suspicions —meal at this place. How dare Todd insinuate—
But what about the novel?
That was different. It wasn’t as if anyone would know it was him when it got published. If it got published; there were no guarantees. By then, she’d be long gone anyway, and this would be just one in a string of assignments. No one would ever know Todd was the inspiration.
Uh huh .
She refused to feel guilty about something she hadn’t yet done, so Naughty Girl could just keep quiet.
“ Well, hello there!” exclaimed a chipper voice at her side.
Mr. Griff? What was he doing here?
Well, thank goodness for it because the last thing she needed to be doing was wrestling with her conscience about something she might or might not do at some point in the future, cluing Todd in to the fact that she might not be what he thought she was. Or maybe she really was what Todd thought she was, thereby getting herself fired for something she hadn’t even done yet.
“ Miss Gardener?”
“ Hi,” she said, turning all perky, as if she hadn’t just had one of the heaviest discussions of her life, complete with unwarranted—sort of—guilt complex. “What brings you here, Mr. Griff? Are you meeting someone for dinner?” And how’d he get past the bouncers?
He slapped his leg and laughed as if she’d said the funniest thing he’d ever heard. “Oh, no.” He wiped the corner of his eye. “I came to give, er, get something I left behind. And there it is.”
He scurried over to a bench behind her beneath the pretty white Christmas lights, his serviceable black shoes clicking along the deck, retrieving something large, flat, and rectangular. He stuffed it under his arm then scampered back. He always seemed to be moving about with new verbs she’d never really thought of before. At the grocery store he’d clambered off the floor, now it was scurrying and scampering. What would he try next? Scuttling?
“ Who’s he?” Todd asked, his eyes narrowed.
Great. Now he was back to wondering if she was involved in some covert spy mission. “Relax. That’s Mr. Griff. The one who gave me the book. Not a reporter.”
Mr. Griff reached them with his large, rectangular something.
“ What on earth is that, Mr. Griff?” Jolie asked.
“ Curiosity killed the cat, Cat.” He wagged a finger at her.
“ Her name is Jolie,” Todd corrected.
The little guy had a cat-ate-the-cream grin. “Her middle name is Catherine.”
Todd looked at Jolie who could only shrug, clueless how Mr. Griff knew.
“ So what is that, Mr. Griff?” She nudged the thing.
“ Oh.” He swept it from under his arm as if it were a European crown jewel. “It’s a book on Hans Holbein.”
“ Holbein the Younger?” Todd asked.
Who the heck was Hans Holbein the Younger and why did Todd suddenly find this conversation interesting?
“ Yes,” Mr. Griff answered Todd, turning slightly and flipping the book open. “He’s very talented, don’t you think?”
She craned her neck to look across the table. A book of paintings—but not landscapes like Todd’s. No, these were all portraits. They looked like
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