to his lips. She'd
always wondered what it'd be like to kiss him. She'd never been able to decide
if he'd be hot and enthusiastic or slow and deliberate. If she tipped
forward—just a little—she could find out.
And possibly ruin their easy
friendship, making everything awkward between them.
So she leaned back. "Didn't you
promise me food?"
"Not until you answer me."
She nodded. "I'll work on
it."
His eyes narrowed. "You
promise?"
"Yes." Just not a fictional
one, she added silently.
"Good," he said.
"Promise me one other thing."
"What?" She took a sip of
wine.
"Go out with me again."
"For dinner?"
He smiled ruefully. "And more.
If you want."
"Like for dessert?" Then
she gasped as she saw the expression on his face. "Surely not dessert ."
"Yes," he said with an
amused smile. " Dessert .
Eventually, at least. First I just want a real date."
" With me ?"
"Of course, you." Frowning,
he touched her cheek. "It's time, Camille."
Her heart beat a mile a minute. This
was a bad idea. She didn't have anything to offer him. She was a loser at work.
She was so much younger and wasn't interesting like the women he usually dated.
She wiped her sweaty palms on her skirt. She should tell him no, because it'd
only mess up their friendship.
But he was so close , and she felt his breath on her skin, and it made her
wonder. So she said, "Okay."
"Good."
Was he going to kiss her? She leaned
forward, curious. Ready.
Wanting it.
But then the bartender returned,
asking if they wanted to order dinner. She didn't know whether to be relieved
or irritated.
She did know she needed to prove
herself worthy of him, though—now more than ever. She had his attention,
but how would she hold it if she didn't measure up to the women he was used to?
She'd go back to ask Gwendolyn Pierce
more questions. If there was a compelling story to the mysterious gourd
artist—and Camille believed there was—she'd be the one to break it.
Chapter Thirteen
The phone
rang as Gwen was cleaning a batch of hard-skinned gourds she'd just received
from her supplier. Gourd still in hand, she wiped her free one on her pants and
reached to answer it. "Outta My Gourd."
There was
the predictable chuckle on the other end, and then a woman said, "I'd like
to speak to Gwendolyn Pierce."
"Speaking."
She placed the phone in the crook of her neck so she could continue as she
talked.
"I'm
Jennifer Brady, the curator at the de Young Museum. We spoke a few months ago
regarding the past and present exhibit. I wanted to let you know your pieces
were one of the artworks selected to remain in our permanent exhibit."
Gwen
dropped the gourd, screaming in a way that would have made her Gallic ancestors
cringe.
Jennifer
laughed. "I seem to get that reaction from everyone."
"You're
the Grim Reaper in opposite." Laughing, Gwen picked up the gourd and did a
little dance with it on the spot. Wait until Rick heard. She thought about
their bet and laughed. It was going to be so sweet when he handed over that
hundred dollars. "This is amazing."
"I
have some paperwork for you to fill out, the usual contracts." There was a
rustle over the line. "A release that gives your work to the museum as
well as the publicity release, plus a couple other formalities. We'll courier
the paperwork to you."
The pit of
her stomach dropped. "Publicity release?"
"Yes,
to use your name and photos. You're going to be all over, if I have anything to
say about it. You're going to be the most renowned gourd artist ever. Your face
and name will be splashed all over the national papers."
"No
splashing!" she exclaimed. "I don't want to be splashed."
But
Jennifer was so focused on her plans she didn't note Gwen's panic. "But
we'll start with local news, of course, like the San Francisco Daily . They're doing another article on the show. I
believe they've already contacted you. It's a full spread with photos of you
and your artwork."
Remembering
the reporter with the hungry eyes, her stomach
always wondered what it'd be like to kiss him. She'd never been able to decide
if he'd be hot and enthusiastic or slow and deliberate. If she tipped
forward—just a little—she could find out.
And possibly ruin their easy
friendship, making everything awkward between them.
So she leaned back. "Didn't you
promise me food?"
"Not until you answer me."
She nodded. "I'll work on
it."
His eyes narrowed. "You
promise?"
"Yes." Just not a fictional
one, she added silently.
"Good," he said.
"Promise me one other thing."
"What?" She took a sip of
wine.
"Go out with me again."
"For dinner?"
He smiled ruefully. "And more.
If you want."
"Like for dessert?" Then
she gasped as she saw the expression on his face. "Surely not dessert ."
"Yes," he said with an
amused smile. " Dessert .
Eventually, at least. First I just want a real date."
" With me ?"
"Of course, you." Frowning,
he touched her cheek. "It's time, Camille."
Her heart beat a mile a minute. This
was a bad idea. She didn't have anything to offer him. She was a loser at work.
She was so much younger and wasn't interesting like the women he usually dated.
She wiped her sweaty palms on her skirt. She should tell him no, because it'd
only mess up their friendship.
But he was so close , and she felt his breath on her skin, and it made her
wonder. So she said, "Okay."
"Good."
Was he going to kiss her? She leaned
forward, curious. Ready.
Wanting it.
But then the bartender returned,
asking if they wanted to order dinner. She didn't know whether to be relieved
or irritated.
She did know she needed to prove
herself worthy of him, though—now more than ever. She had his attention,
but how would she hold it if she didn't measure up to the women he was used to?
She'd go back to ask Gwendolyn Pierce
more questions. If there was a compelling story to the mysterious gourd
artist—and Camille believed there was—she'd be the one to break it.
Chapter Thirteen
The phone
rang as Gwen was cleaning a batch of hard-skinned gourds she'd just received
from her supplier. Gourd still in hand, she wiped her free one on her pants and
reached to answer it. "Outta My Gourd."
There was
the predictable chuckle on the other end, and then a woman said, "I'd like
to speak to Gwendolyn Pierce."
"Speaking."
She placed the phone in the crook of her neck so she could continue as she
talked.
"I'm
Jennifer Brady, the curator at the de Young Museum. We spoke a few months ago
regarding the past and present exhibit. I wanted to let you know your pieces
were one of the artworks selected to remain in our permanent exhibit."
Gwen
dropped the gourd, screaming in a way that would have made her Gallic ancestors
cringe.
Jennifer
laughed. "I seem to get that reaction from everyone."
"You're
the Grim Reaper in opposite." Laughing, Gwen picked up the gourd and did a
little dance with it on the spot. Wait until Rick heard. She thought about
their bet and laughed. It was going to be so sweet when he handed over that
hundred dollars. "This is amazing."
"I
have some paperwork for you to fill out, the usual contracts." There was a
rustle over the line. "A release that gives your work to the museum as
well as the publicity release, plus a couple other formalities. We'll courier
the paperwork to you."
The pit of
her stomach dropped. "Publicity release?"
"Yes,
to use your name and photos. You're going to be all over, if I have anything to
say about it. You're going to be the most renowned gourd artist ever. Your face
and name will be splashed all over the national papers."
"No
splashing!" she exclaimed. "I don't want to be splashed."
But
Jennifer was so focused on her plans she didn't note Gwen's panic. "But
we'll start with local news, of course, like the San Francisco Daily . They're doing another article on the show. I
believe they've already contacted you. It's a full spread with photos of you
and your artwork."
Remembering
the reporter with the hungry eyes, her stomach
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