The Art of Romance (39 page)

“Of course, from that photo in the newspaper, it looks like you may have some stiff competition. See you later,” Bridget called, heading off toward Rutherford Hall.

Caylor’s feet dragged as she mounted the front steps of Davidson.

For the first time, she’d admitted to herself—and to God—that her feelings for Dylan Bradley went deeper than the visceral attraction she’d always felt toward the hand-drawn self-portrait of him she’d had for so many years.

Argh. She shouldn’t have kept everything bottled up this weekend—she should have talked to Zarah and Flannery about what his former roommate had told her.

And she needed to talk to Dylan. Maybe tomorrow night after the painting class—

But no. She’d agreed to go out with Riley Douglas tomorrow night.

At the second-floor landing, Caylor almost dropped her keys when her cell phone started buzzing loudly in the outside pocket of her bag. She dug for the phone while trying to unlock her office door.

She looked at the screen before answering.

Dylan Bradley calling
.

She paused, thumb hovering over the button to answer the call. What had Bridget meant about the photo in the newspaper and competition?

“Dr. Evans.” A student hurried up the stairs. “I hope I’m not late for our appointment.”

Caylor hit I
GNORE
and dropped the phone back into her bag. She smiled at the young woman who would be graduating with top honors in a few months. “No, I haven’t even gotten my door unlocked yet.”

She finally got the right key into the lock and opened the door, ushering the student in. Dylan Bradley would just have to wait.

After a full afternoon of student meetings—most of them having put off coming up with their thesis topics until as late as they possibly could—Caylor finally had time to get on the computer to take care of her e-mails and…oh, yeah, that thing Bridget said.

She pulled up the web browser and went straight to the newspaper’s website, where she searched for Dylan’s name. Though it took a little doing, she managed to find it—a picture of Dylan with a beautiful blond woman, her arm looped through his. Caylor read the caption twice.

Wedding bells? Main squeeze?

Caylor’s mood plummeted lower than it had been all day. Why hadn’t he said anything to her about being involved with someone? And then…what was that article?

She clicked on the related link at the bottom of the page and read the short blurb posted by one of the newspaper’s political bloggers today:

Caylor turned off the computer, more confused than ever. She locked up her office and headed home, head spinning. She passed Sage coming out of the subdivision onto Granny White Pike. Sage waved as she pulled Sassy’s classic Ford Falcon onto the road, headed who knew where. Caylor had a hard time believing Sage spent every evening studying as she claimed. And so far, other than the six hours a week she sat for Dylan’s portraiture studio, she hadn’t gotten another job.

Dylan. The day Caylor had sat for his class, the intensity with which he’d studied her as he created that extraordinary sketch of her—had that been merely an artist’s critical gaze? Had she read too much into his reactions to her?

Or was it possible that Wyatt Oakes had been misinformed about Dylan’s relationship with Rhonda Kramer? But what about the blond in the newspaper photo? The argument with his mother?

She turned into the driveway—and came to an abrupt stop. A bright blue Ford Escape sat on the parking pad beside the carport. Of course he wasn’t the only person in Davidson County who drove one of those, but…

Once parked, she sat still for a moment, steeling herself to come face-to-face with him without immediately grilling him about what she’d heard and read. She pushed papers that had slid out back into her bag and, taking a deep breath, got out and headed for the door.

She draped her coat over one of the chairs at the table in the new breakfast room and hooked the strap of her bag over her shoulder, pulling the bag in front of her as if it could shield her from finding out something she didn’t want to know.

Soft voices came from the living room at the front of the house. Caylor stepped into the kitchen and, beyond the staircase that now created the only separation in the main portion of the house, saw Dylan adjusting a lamp to shine on Sassy, who sat in front of the fireplace in the dusty-rose wing chair from her bedroom. An easel sat a few feet away from her with a large canvas clamped onto it, and beside that stood a rickety-looking table holding an artist’s paint box.

“Caylor!” Sassy waved at her. “I wondered when you might get home. There’s a plate for you in the kitchen.”

“Sassy—what’s going on?” Caylor had to fight against her own body to keep from looking at Dylan.

“Oh, didn’t I tell you? Dylan is going to paint my portrait. He’s also going to do one of Papa and one of the two of us together—from photos. And I might have him do one of you and Sage.”

Caylor leaned against the bottom newel post of the stairs and crossed her arms. Even from here, she could see the glitter in Sassy’s eyes. “No, you didn’t tell me.”

Okay, she couldn’t be rude. She allowed her eyes to drift to Dylan—where they’d wanted to be ever since she walked into the room. “Hey, Dylan.”

“Hey, Caylor. How was New York?” He made one more adjustment to the lamp and then moved around to the canvas, his gaze locking with hers.

“Fine. We got what we went there looking for.” And then some. “I’m sorry I didn’t call you back earlier today. I understand congratulations are in order. Bridget told me Dr. Holtz offered you the assistant professorship.” She picked at a worn spot on the strap of her bag.

“Oh—yes. Thank you. I called to see if you’re planning on going to one of the performances of the winter concert at school this weekend. I’ve heard it has a World War II theme, with music from that era and readings from actual letters from the front lines. I thought we might…sit together if we’re both going.”

He was asking her out—or was he? Sit together if they were both going? What, couldn’t Blondie go with him? Her head and heart warred with each other. Until she had confirmation or denial of what she’d heard about him, she couldn’t risk losing her heart to him even more by spending time with him on a quasi-date.

“I…I’m not sure. I think I might, but I’ll have to get back to you.” She needed to be proactive here, not put her fact-finding mission on hold too long. “Are you busy Wednesday afternoon? Maybe we could grab some lattes in the student center and talk for a minute.”

“I’d like that. My studio lets out at three thirty. Meet you there then?”

She nodded. “I’ll see you then.”

Turning her back on her grandmother and the man she’d love to spend time with—a whole lot of time, like maybe forever—she pulled the waiting plate of dinner from the warming drawer and carried it and a bottle of water upstairs.

She hadn’t been this uncertain about her feelings toward someone—well, about his feelings toward her—since high school. And this whole situation made her feel like that gangly, awkward sixteen-year-old again. It had helped that she’d gone to an all-girls school—so the fact that boys avoided her hadn’t been quite so painfully obvious to everyone. There had been a boy at church she’d had a crush on for a few years. When her mother encouraged her to take the initiative and ask him to prom her senior year, she’d done it—and been soundly rejected. No teenage guy wanted to be asked out by a girl who towered over him. In the end, she’d had to ask Flannery’s boyfriend to go with her. It helped that he already had a tuxedo for prom at their high school the next weekend.

Caylor left the full plate on her desk, hooked the bag on her chair, and returned to sit on the top step. Sassy and Dylan spoke in tones too low for her to make out what they were saying, but just hearing the deep timbre of his voice made visions of highland warriors, English barons, and Italian painters dance through her head.

Seeing a Monte Christo—a club sandwich that was battered and then deep-fried—on the menu at the Wildhorse Saloon brought the most excitement Caylor had been able to muster since yesterday. Even though she and Riley arrived early enough to get a good table on the second floor overlooking the dance floor and stage below, the noise in the tourist trap wasn’t doing her headache any favors.

“Isn’t this fantastic?” Riley swept his gaze across the room, beaming. His sweep stopped on the large table beside them—a table full of twentysomething women dressed in too-tight tops and too-short skirts. “Looks like a bachelorette party.”

Caylor squeezed her face into a smile. “Looks like it.”

Riley turned back to her, though it took his eyes a little longer to turn her direction than his face. “So…you teach English, huh? I hated learning grammar and stuff when I was in school. You must really like it.”

“I do. But I mostly teach literature and writing. Because I teach upper-level students, most of them come to me having already learned ‘grammar and stuff.’ “She looked up and leaned slightly to the side when a server brought her iced tea, Riley’s beer, and the order of fried dill pickles.

If she’d known he’d planned to drink tonight, she would have insisted on driving herself. Today’s heavy rain had made the streets dangerous enough without having an intoxicated driver adding to the peril.

“Did I tell you about the new job I started on this month?” Riley launched into a description of the kitchen he’d spent the better part of the last few weeks tearing apart—and all of the foibles, problems, and near-death disasters it entailed.

Their food arrived. She’d barely had time to grab a sandwich from the snack bar in the student center between classes today, so she’d inhaled the first half of the Monte Christo before Riley had finished doctoring his hamburger and drowning his fries with ketchup.

“I figured you for a gal with a healthy appetite.” Riley reached over and squeezed her waist with his right hand, grinning.

She wouldn’t smack him. She wouldn’t. She wouldn’t. Forcing her fists to unclench, she reached for her glass and took a sip of tea to wash down her pique. “I’ve never believed in going hungry just to try to impress someone.” And frankly, the sandwich would probably be the most pleasure she’d get out of this evening—especially with the chipotle-spiced raspberry dipping sauce.

So far, she’d been pleased with herself for taking off another five pounds since Christmas—the lowest her weight had been in more than ten years. She wasn’t about to let Mr. Fantastic ruin that sense of accomplishment. She picked up the second half of the sandwich and dunked the corner into the dipping sauce. She savored the bite, truly allowing her tongue to experience the diversity of flavors—sweet, salty, spicy—of the food.

“So, anyway,” Riley picked up his hamburger and took a huge, sloppy bite of it. “I got the wrong-size pipe and had to go back to the plumbing center….” He chewed as he talked.

Caylor almost gagged but moved her focus to her own food and finishing it. Which she did. And he was still talking.

Why was it that sometimes, when taken in small chunks—and when “on the job”—some people seemed perfectly nice, perfectly normal? But get them out into a social situation and they completely changed?

As unobtrusively as she could, Caylor reached for her purse, pulled out her journal, and wrote those questions down. Since she couldn’t stomach writing romance right now—because she couldn’t do it without thinking about Dylan—maybe she’d see if she could work that dichotomy into some kind of idea for a new novel.

“Come on, let’s go down for the dance lessons. They’ll save our table for us.” Riley grabbed her hand and started pulling her off the high, bar-style chair.

Caylor grabbed for her purse and looped the long strap over her head and across her chest. She already knew the dances they’d announced they were going to teach, but what the heck. This would give them something to do that didn’t involve Riley talking about plumbing supplies or nearly exploding gas lines.

Down on the dance floor with a couple dozen other people, Caylor actually started having fun. Most of the young women from the bachelorette party had come down also, and several of them managed to work their way between Caylor and Riley during one of the line dances.

She supposed she should make some nominal effort to “fight” for him, but she just couldn’t bring herself to do it. She was having too much fun dancing and helping a few middle-aged couples with the steps.

When it came time for learning the two-step, Caylor begged off and returned upstairs to their table. She ordered another iced tea—going wild and having them add raspberry flavoring to it—and perched on the chair at the high table and watched the dancing going on below.

Riley looked up a few times and waved. Impressive—even surrounded by the bachelorette party girls, he still remembered he was here with Caylor. He pulled out his phone and texted someone.