to sit for him at a convenient time—be answered?
“What’s up?”
He turned to find Maddy halfway down the stairs. She was rumpled and sleep-creased and warm-looking. He made an effort to keep his eyes above the hemline of the T-shirt.
“Nothing. Just a work thing,” he said.
“Of course. You’re back in the workforce now. What are you doing?”
He stared at her. There were a handful of people who knew about his artistic ambitions. None of them were close friends or family. Still, he had to start owning his desires sooner or later.
“A bit of stonework. Mostly working with bronze. Mostly figure-based stuff,” he said.
God, he felt like a pretentious wanker saying the words out loud.
She frowned. She had no idea what he was talking about, of course.
I’m trying to be an artist.
That’s what he should have said.
Her baffled gaze slid over his shoulder to where his earlier works marched along the wall beside his workbench.
“Oh! Those are yours?” she asked, incredulous.
As well she might be.
Her eyes were wide as she walked over to inspect them.
“God, Max, I thought you’d brought them over from your dad’s place or something and didn’t know where to put them in your new loft,” she said.
He stayed where he was, his whole body tense as she circled his most recent piece, a full-size bronze figure of a woman balanced on one leg, her other leg bent at the knee and held at a right angle from her body, her pointed foot hitting her supporting leg above the knee. Her arms were lifted high, joining in a graceful arch over her head.
He’d been happy with the emotion he’d been able to capture in the piece, but it still needed work.
“This is great! Wow. Max, this is amazing. I can’t believe someone I know made something this beautiful.”
Something—relief?—expanded in his chest and he let himself move closer.
Maddy ran a hand over the curve of the woman’s waist and hip, her face lit with admiration.
“I can almost feel her moving. How did you do that?” she said. Then she snatched her hand away. “I’m so sorry! Is it okay if I touch it?”
Her expression was so contrite he had to laugh.
“It’s bronze. It could probably survive a nuclear holocaust,” he said.
She looked at him, shaking her head.
“I can’t believe you didn’t mention this last night, or in any of your e-mails, for that matter. I remember you used to sketch, but this is…I don’t have the words. What a dark horse. How long have you been doing this?”
He shrugged. “I’ve just been dabbling, really. But I’m about to get started on a new series I’ve been planning.”
“Was that what the call was about?”
“Yeah. Gabriella, my life model, pulled out at the last minute. I’m going to have to find someone else.”
He sounded pissed. Probably because he was.
She’d moved on to inspect his smaller, earlier works. He shuffled from foot to foot, then shoved his hands into his back pockets. They weren’t as good as they could be. He’d been learning his craft when he made them, honing his skills. He should have destroyed them. Or put them in storage somewhere.
Maddy’s eyes were warm when she looked at him again.
“Max. I don’t know what to say. These are really, really good.”
He was embarrassed by how much her praise meant to him.
“Thanks.”
She stroked the bronze figure again. “Losing this life model is a pretty big deal, yeah?”
“It’s a setback. It took me a while to find her. The series is dance-based, and ordinary models aren’t up to it.”
“Dance-based.” She looked at the bronze woman again. “Like this?”
“More dynamic. I want to capture that moment when dance becomes more than just movement,” he said. Then he stopped. Could he sound like any more of a tosser, crapping on about his work like some beret-wearing poseur?
She looked at him. There was a new light in her eye, as though she’d made an important decision.
“Use me,” she said.
“Sorry?” He actually shook his head, convinced he hadn’t heard right.
“You need a new life model, right? Someone to portray a dancer. Why not me?”
HE WAS GOING TO SAY NO. Maddy could tell by the way his eyes darkened and his jaw tensed.
She had no idea if she was the right model for what he wanted to do. But as soon as the idea popped into her head it had felt right. Especially given the realization she’d woken to this morning.
“Before you say no, hear me out,” she said. “I decided something this morning. I’m not going to take this forced retirement lying down. I’m going to get a second opinion—hell, a fifth and sixth if I need it. I’m going to keep doing my rehab work and I’m going to find a way to dance.” She said it like a challenge, daring him to disagree with her.
She’d given up too easily; the thought had been waiting for her, fully formed, when she opened her eyes and blinked at Max’s ceiling half an hour ago. Dr. Hanson was one doctor, and she’d allowed his opinion to count for more than it should. She wasn’t prepared to give up. Not yet. Not until she’d explored every avenue. Her future happiness depended on her efforts.
Only when Max nodded slowly did she release the breath she’d been holding. If he’d looked disbelieving—God, if he’d laughed—she wasn’t sure what she would have done.
“I think that’s a good idea,” he said.
She smiled.
“Thank you. I needed to hear you say that. The thing is, most of the top dance medicine gurus are here in Paris. I couldn’t be in a better place, even if I only came here because you were here. I’m going to call around today, try to get an appointment.”
“That might take a while. Months, even.”
“I know.
