Page 59 of The Big Easy & Other Lies
A laugh escaped him, low and startled. “It might kill me if we got any better than that.” His voice was scratchier than usual. He dipped down and stole another short, hard kiss. “My scene is soon. I need your sketchpad.” He turned toward the design door and I followed, my brain doing a lazy backstroke through hormone pudding.
“My sketchpad?” I repeated stupidly.
“Yeah. That was my excuse to Gervis for coming back here.”
“But why do you need it?”
“If it’s okay with you, I’ll study them over the weekend so I can think about the music for your vignette.”
I wiped my damp palm on my jeans. “File this under crazy, but for me to hand you that sketchbook takes a level of trust that is pretty unheard of for me.”
He leaned down and stole another kiss. “I promise to think that everything you drew is awesome. And if you don’t want to give it to me, I get it. But you’ll have to help me think of some other reason I came back here.”
I hesitated. It was a sketchbook, not my firstborn. “I’ll be right back,” I whispered.
I returned with the sketchbook tight against my chest. “I know this sounds paranoid, but don’t let Angelique know you have it.” I could imagine her leafing through the pages, mocking them as she went.
“I know Angelique has it in for you,” he said. “She made it clear she wanted me to keep my distance. That’s why I quit bugging you. I wasn’t sure you were interested, and it didn’t seem worth bringing her down on you to find out. Sorry she sucks.”
“But you’re bugging me now.” I couldn’t help smiling.
He shrugged and gave the sketchbook a soft tug to pry it from my arms. “You seem okay with it.”
“I. Yes. Um. Yeah,” I said, like an idiot. And then because I’d exhausted my word supply, I stood on my tiptoes and kissed him. I was too chicken to plant one on his mouth, so it landed to the side.
He grinned. “I’ll call you later.” He slipped back out to join the rest of the cast.
I wandered back to my worktable and stared blankly at the sketch of the Widow Corney I had pulled out before handing the book off to him. I’d worked up some ideas for the pickpockets too, even though Amber hadn’t asked. I liked the idea of them. The orphan connection, I guess. My interpretation was pretty out there. Inspired by the direction of my Urban Renewal stuff, I had imagined Oliver Twist as the street hustlers who swarmed the Quarter and conned tourists, his clothes reflecting the urban streetwear they favored.
Amber decided now was the perfect time to check up on me, and she came to stand over my shoulder. For once, I didn’t feel like folding in on myself to reduce her target area. Who cared if she didn’t like the sketches? Rhett kissed me! Amber didn’t matter.
I handed her my paper without saying anything. I’d let the designs talk. She studied them for a long moment before handing them back to me with a nod and no comment.
Since I didn’t have my capstone designs to noodle around on, I spent the rest of the period sketching out ideas for some of the other roles on the back of the pickpocket sketch. Every time I thought of Rhett’s kisses (now three and a half of them!), a flower doodle sprouted from my pencil. So dumb, but I didn’t care.
By the time the bell rang, they covered the paper.
Chapter 22
Mrs. Broussard was my fairy godmother. She had to be, because two Wednesdays later she called me to her desk, and instead of dropping glass slippers in my lap, she patted a shiny sewing machine. “I’ve been shopping around for an upgrade to the sewing machines here, but I don’t want to invest without some due diligence. I’m thinking industrial models.”
“New machines? That’s great.” The eight we had now were in decent condition, but the industrial machines had functions that made sewing fly. Possibly to the point of overkill for a high school program, but whatever. That was LaSalle for you.
“I leased this model for a trial run.” She pointed to the pricy Juki gleaming at me. “Would you mind testing it out on your home sewing projects over the next six weeks or so and tell me what you think?”
Six weeks was what we had left until the Night of Design showcase with Stormi Branson and Aidan Helm. I couldn’t speak, so I nodded.
“Good,” she said, pretending not to notice my mini-breakdown. “Is Bran around to help you with this?”
I shook my head. “No, but...” I walked to the door and poked my head out. Rhett leaned against a large stone planter, waiting for me, lost in the music pouring through his earbuds. He smiled when he saw me and pulled them out. “Can you help me carry something?” I asked.
He hurried in, and I pointed to the new machine beside Mrs. Broussard. “That’s mine for six weeks. Can you get it to Livvie’s car?”
“I know you can’t see them when I flex, but I have the muscles for the job, I promise.”
I laughed, not daring to comment on how much I liked his lean build with Mrs. Broussard sitting right there. She didn’t need to know how much time I’d spent running my hands over his biceps during the last two weeks.
She slipped the cover over the machine and Rhett hefted it up.
