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James regarded her, his mouth crooked, as though he couldn’t decide between a smile and a frown.
“Muriel.” He set his book beside him. “You are upset that Griffith wouldn’t accept your commission. So am I, because I understand how much those illustrations matter to you, and because I’d imagined a passionate romance unfolding as the two of you bicycled along the shore, the wind in your hair, love poems spelled out in glistening seaweed upon the golden sand.”
“Ha,” she said as her heart gave an unwelcome thud.
“I wanted it to happen,” James continued, coolly. “I even forgave you your willingness to abandon me.”
Drat. That.
Abashed, she bit her lip. “You would have come along, of course.” She squirmed, then yelped as wicker prickled through her skirt.
It was no more than she deserved.
She’d volunteered herself without sparing a thought for James, too caught up in the heat of the moment. But she’d have remedied the situation if it hadn’t turned out as it did.
“I was going to ask you to bicycle with us.”
“Thanks. I’d rather play tennis.” James threw his arm over the back of the chaise. “The point is that Griffith made you feel something you haven’t in quite some time.”
“Not him. His art.”
James arched his brows meaningfully.
“Fine,” muttered Muriel. “Him too. I don’t know how to explain that part.”
“Attraction. Lust. Desire.” James drummed his fingers. “It’s highly explicable.”
“I gave him a lobsterish look, didn’t I?” Pain stabbed behind Muriel’s left eye. “That’s how you could tell.”
“That, and the fact that you kissed him in front of me.”
“I do manifest lust like a crustacean. Damn.” She put her thumb on the ridge of her brow. “Thank God, it’s over now. I want nothing to do with him.”
“Hmm,” said James. More drumming of the fingers. “What about a night in his bed, though? That wasn’t a half-bad idea.”
“Was it not?” she snarled. “Clearly, you haven’t listened to a word I’ve said.”
James considered her with a superior smile. “Either that, or I have listened entirely too well.”
She knew better than to ask him to explain.
“Enough listening to me, then. It’s your turn.”
“My turn? You constantly dismiss all my wisdom. Why should I give you more priceless advice if you’re going to ignore it?”
“I don’t want you to say anything else about me. I want you to say something about yourself.”
“Myself?” James laughed. “I celebrate myself, and sing myself.”
“James,” she sighed.
“It’s the beginning of a poem by Walt Whitman. You’re going to America. You should know it. Shall I continue?”
“No. Quoting a poem is saying nothing.”
“I couldn’t disagree more.”
She ground her teeth. “No poems. And don’t tell me that it looks like rain.”
