Page 26 of Enchanted
A man who demanded privacy had to respect that of others.
But he would pry without a qualm.
“Your family lives in San Francisco.”
“Hmm. Yes.” She had the kettle on and was choosing from one of Belinda’s delightful collection of teapots. “They’re both college professors. My father chairs the English department at the university.”
“And your mother?” Idly, he slipped the sketch pad out of the bag she had tossed on the table.
“She teaches history.” After a mild debate, she selected a pot shaped like a fairy, with wings for the handle. “They’re brilliant,” she continued, carefully measuring out tea. “And really marvelous instructors. My mother was made assistant dean last year and …”
She trailed off, stunned and just a little horrified when she saw Liam studying her sketch of the wolf.
“These are wonderful.” He didn’t bother to look up, but turned another page and narrowed his eyes in concentration at her drawing of a stand of trees and lacy ferns. Peeking through those airy shapes were the suggestion of wings, of laughing eyes.
She saw the fairies, he thought, and smiled.
“They’re just doodles.” Her fingers itched to snatch the book, close it away, but manners held her back. “It’s just a hobby.”
And when his eyes shot to hers, she nearly shivered.
“Why would you say that, and try to believe it, when you have a talent and a love for it?”
“It’s only something I do in my spare time—now and again.”
He turned the next page. She’d done a study of the cottage, made it look like something out of an old and charming legend with its ring of trees and welcoming porch. “And you’re insulted when someone calls you foolish?” he muttered. “It’s foolish you are if you don’t do what you love instead of wringing your hands about it.”
“That’s a ridiculous thing to say. I do not wring my hands.” She turned back to take the kettle off the bowl and prevent herself from doing exactly that. “It’s a hobby. Most people have one.”
“It’s your gift,” he corrected, “and you’ve been neglecting it.”
“You can’t make a living off of doodles.”
“What does making a living have to do with it?”
His tone was so arrogantly royal, she had to laugh. “Oh, nothing other than food, shelter, responsibility.” She came back to set the pot on the table, turned to fetch cups. “Little things like that from the real world.”
“Then sell your art if you’ve a need to make a living.”
“Nobody’s going to buy pencil sketches from an English teacher.”
“I’ll buy this one.” He rose and held the book open to one of her studies of the wolf. In it, the wolf stood, facing the onlooker with a challenging glint in his eyes exactly like the one in Liam’s. “Name your price.”
“I’m not selling it, and you’re not buying it to make some point.” Refusing to take him seriously, she waved him back. “Sit down and have your tea.”
“Then give me the sketch.” He angled his head as he looked at it again. “I like it. And this one.” He flipped the page to the trees and fern fairies. “I could use something like this in the game I’m doing. I’ve no talent for drawing.”
“Then who does the drawings for your graphics?” she asked, hoping to change the subject, and as a last resort, got out the burned buns.
“Mmm. Different people for different moods.” He sat again, absently took one of the rolls. It was hard and undeniably burned, but if you got past that, it was wonderfully sweet and generously filled with currants.
“So how do you—”
“Do either of your parents draw?” he interrupted.
“No.” Even the thought of it made her chuckle. The idea of either of her smart and busy parents settling down to dream with pencil and paper. “They gave me lessons when I was a child and showed an interest. And my mother actually keeps a sketch I made of the bay, from when I was a teenager, framed and in her office at the university.”
“So she appreciates your talent.”
