Perhaps it was time for him to take something for himself.
Four
T
he next morning, Peyton shoved an unruly tangle of curls from her face, squinting at a perfectly put together Tarron in the updated kitchen of Leander Skerry’s Tudor-style home. It was a disgusting sight so early in the day. She might have slept if those Nordic blue eyes hadn’t kept stealing her slumber. “Tell me there’s coffee.”
He pointed to a percolator on the countertop. How lucky she was to have him there. She wasn’t a morning person, and if she’d have to figure out how to use such a device, it would likely have her committing herself to the looney bin.
“Have you written your article forArt Allianceyet?”
She picked up the pot and poured a cup. “Geez, Tarron. It’s barely daylight, and we only saw the show yesterday. It’s not even due for another month.”
“It’s after eleven. It’s not like you to sleep so late.”
Sleep? Hah.“What’s on your agenda today?” she said, hoping he didn’t pick up on her obvious avoidance of the question. Her best friend was much too intuitive.
“I thought I would take in eighteen holes. We aren’t far from Maylands. You don’t need me around, do you?”
“Wouldn’t matter if I did, would it?” she asked, grinning. “I take it you already have a tee time?”
He shot her a sheepish smile. “Well…”
“Go. Have a fabulous time.”
“Thank you, darling. I’ll see you later.” He kissed her cheek and headed for the door. “Don’t wait up.”
“Hmm.”
Peyton soaked in the quiet. She and Tarron could be sitting in the same room not speaking a single word, and it would still feel as if the air thrived with restless activity. Sort of like the trees on her walk the afternoon before. Tarron had that kind of presence. Most of the time, she welcomed it. She was not normally one of those individuals who cared for being alone with her own thoughts to reflect upon. She rose, picked up a notebook and pen, then stepped out on the terrace and settled on a well-worn but comfortable chaise.
The morning was unnervingly reticent. The trees were silent but for a few drifting leaves, floating to the ground in hushed surrender. She opened her pad and began to write.
Art Alliance, September 2019 — Jess Aldis is at it again. Another work, another—
Peyton tore off the page, wadded it up, and tossed it away, groaning. She slammed the notebook shut and opted for a walk. There was plenty of time to write the damn article.
The air held the fragrance of dank, damp earth. The normal rustling of the trees faded from Alistar’s hearing as his blood thundered over them. He stood on the path waiting to see if he would be lucky for a second day in a row.
Then, like the brightest light in the darkest gloom, Peyton walked into view, bringing another scent to inundate his senses. One of citrus. Oranges, and in the depths of fall. The breath he’d unknowingly taken whooshed from his body. “I was beginning to think you were a figment of my imagination.”
A becoming pink… no, not just pink—he was a man who dabbled in colors, after all—pink rose. Yes, pink rose bloomed in her cheeks. He found her embarrassment enchanting. Nothing that her reviews of his work would indicate was possible.
She avoided his gaze by surveying the surrounding landscape, her eyes moving skyward to the tops of the trees. “How odd. The trees. They sound as if—”
Well, that conversation piece would not do. “Tell me about your work,” he cut in smoothly. “Are you working on something now?”
She looked at him oddly, and he realized they’d had this very conversation yesterday. “Yes, for theArt Alliance. You’ve heard of it?”
He almost rolled his eyes but managed to stop himself. Any artist worth his salt took theArt Alliance. “Of course. I’m a titled lord with nothing but time on his hands.”
She either missed or ignored his sarcasm. “The article is not due until October.”
That was a bit of a relief. He’d be good and solidly committed by then, he thought with a mixture of black humor and moroseness. “And just what did you think of the museum’s showing?”
Discomfort flittered over her expression then disappeared in a blink.
He wasn’t certain he’d even seen it. He was a man prone to visions after all. Hmm. He’d never made sport of himself to such a degree, quelling the urge to laugh outright. He took her arm, tucked it into his, and drew her into a stroll.
