The Art of Romance (44 page)

Dylan couldn’t help his amusement, still giddy from simply being in Caylor’s presence again. “You English professors and your big words. But I do feel sorry that she isn’t enjoying this more. I always thought brides liked doing this kind of stuff.”

“If Zarah had been able to have the kind of wedding she wanted—small, just family and a few close friends—she’d be much happier right now. But Bobby’s an only child of wealthy parents, and Zarah’s a people pleaser. So they’re both trying to make his parents happy.”

Dylan had met Bobby earlier that week at a place where they could eat all the hot wings they could handle and then played darts and pool afterward. Bobby had told Dylan all about his past—about getting in trouble his senior year of high school, which led him to having to enlist in the army, meeting Zarah, their breakup, and the subsequent fourteen years he’d been away from Nashville and his parents. So Dylan could understand why Bobby wanted to give his parents as big a role in the wedding as possible—to make up for lost time.

“Speaking of parents…” Though, really, he didn’t want to ruin this reunion with Caylor. “I finally heard back from mine about dinner.”

“Really? When do they want to go?” Caylor handed her soft-sided briefcase to Dylan and stepped toward the luggage carousel.

“Um…tonight.” He looked down and picked at a spot of brown paint on the base knuckle of his left thumb. “Mother really wants to do it before the election at the beginning of April because she’s worried about how busy she’ll be after that. Assuming she wins.”

Caylor looked over her shoulder. “You think she won’t?”

He shrugged. “This morning’s newspaper said the poll numbers spiked two weeks ago after the art auction—that it was the biggest single donation the crisis pregnancy center had ever received—but that since then, the numbers have been sliding back down to where they were around the time they busted her for the scene in the restaurant almost two weeks before that. Where she’s polling right now, it doesn’t look like she’ll win.”

Caylor turned and lifted a bright red suitcase off the belt. Dylan stepped forward and took it from her and handed the smaller bag back to her.

“How do you feel about the possibility your mom might lose the election?”

He shrugged again. “Sorry for her, I guess. She really wants this.” Of course, she’d never seemed overly concerned with what he wanted, so why—

No. That was a very unproductive line of thinking, something he’d written about several times in the journal Ken made him keep. It didn’t matter if his mother had never supported him in what he wanted. She was his mother. He would support her dream to be elected to the state senate.

“I hope she wins.”

Caylor wrapped her arm around his waist and squeezed. “What time are we meeting them for supper?”

“Six. So we have just enough time to get you home to drop off your stuff and change before we meet them.”

Caylor looked down at her well-worn jeans and long-sleeved, gray, JRU T-shirt. “What, this isn’t good enough for your parents?” She reached over with her free hand and smoothed the lapel of his steel-blue corduroy blazer. “I wondered why you’d gotten all dressed up just to come get me. Not that I mind, at all. Where are we meeting them?”

“Sunset Grill. And before you offer”—because he knew she would, and unlike with Rhonda, it really didn’t bother him—”you don’t need to offer to lend me money to pay for your dinner tonight. I sold a couple of paintings while you were gone—to someone who’d bought a piece at the auction.”

Caylor stepped in front of him and stopped, facing him. “Dylan, I hope you know that I don’t do it to make you feel bad or to belittle you. That’s the last thing I want you to think. I just don’t want you eating nothing but ramen noodles and macaroni and cheese because you feel like you have to pay for me whenever we go out. I know that, as soon as you start working full-time in August, it won’t be an issue. I just don’t want to be a financial burden on you.”

He reached up and ran his thumb over the worry lines creasing her forehead. “I like ramen noodles and mac and cheese.”

She started to protest again, but he stopped her by pressing his fingertips to her lips.

“It’s okay, Caylor. Yeah, I wish I made more money”—
than you—
“but I don’t mind making sacrifices so that we can go out and have a good time whenever we want to.”

Caylor pulled his hand away from her mouth. “But it’s not okay with me, Dylan, knowing that you’re struggling to make ends meet as it is. Don’t you think it’s possible that I’d like to treat you to dinner or movie tickets or something occasionally? What’s that Bible verse about where your treasure lies, that’s where your heart is? I want to be able to do nice things for you—like treat you to dinner at expensive restaurants or go places you might not otherwise be able to go right now—because I…” Her voice faltered. She swallowed, blinked twice. “Because I love you.”

His stomach went oozy, and his chest tightened. She’d said it—she’d broken the love barrier.

“And it’s not fair for you to keep me from being able to take what I have and put it into this relationship, to keep me from feeling like an equal partner in it instead of someone who needs to be taken care of. It’s somewhat insulting.” She ran her hand down the lapel of his jacket again.

He caught her hand right over his heart and pressed her palm to his chest. His brothers were right: he was being far too nineteenth century about this money thing. “I never thought about it that way—that I was making you feel like I don’t see you as an equal.” The way he felt the whole time he was with Rhonda. “I never want to do anything to hurt you or insult you. Because I love you, too.” He sealed the declaration with a soft kiss—and forced himself to back away before it got out of hand and took them where they’d both agreed they weren’t ready to go yet.

Grinning at the bemused expression in her eyes, he took her by the hand and led her out to the parking garage.

On the way back to her house, she told him about the four days she’d spent in New York. “And I went back to the art museum and did it justice this time. I have to tell you I like your work much better than all those European masters with all their fat, nude women. And considering that was when the Catholic church controlled everything, I’m shocked that they could get away with it.”

Dylan had an art-history lecture about that subject ready to tumble forth, but he refrained and let her continue uninterrupted. Someday when they were able to go see the masterworks together, he would explain. But it could wait until then.

At the house, he parked behind her SUV and carried her suitcase in. She took it from him at the bottom of the stairs. Curiosity at what her upstairs “loft,” as she called it, looked like consumed him, but he didn’t follow her. After all, she needed to change clothes.

The other side of the carport had been empty—and neither Sage nor Sassy was home. Dylan shrugged out of his blazer. For early March, it had turned out quite warm today, making the house stuffy—though it had already started to cool off outside as evening approached.

“There are glasses in the cabinet beside the fridge if you want something to drink,” Caylor called down the stairs.

“Nah, I’m good.” Dylan draped his jacket across one of the three tall chairs at the island’s breakfast bar and sat in another. He hadn’t seen this house before the remodeling, but he really liked it now—except that it didn’t have enough wall space left for hanging much in the way of artwork.

He didn’t have to wait long; and when Caylor appeared at the bottom of the stairs, his breath—and his heart and stomach and shoes—caught in his throat. She wore a dark-green and gold harlequin-patterned dress that, while covering her with long sleeves and a skirt just below her knees, showed off her Rubenesque body to perfection. Worn with tall brown boots with heels that made her almost the same height as him, she looked far too good to be seen with the likes of him.

Balling his hands into fists, he forced himself to stave off that line of thinking. “You look fantastic.”

“Thanks. I clean up pretty well.” She stepped closer, frowning. “What’s that on your arm?”

“What?” He looked down at his left shoulder where she was pointing. “Oh.”

Pushing up the sleeve, he revealed his other tattoo—the one Rhonda had never known the meaning behind, the one of a knight holding a medieval maiden to his side with an Irish wolfhound beside them.

“That’s….” Caylor ran her finger along the outline of the dog—making his skin tingle—then looked into his eyes. “That’s the image from the front cover of
Lady Knight
. When did you get this?”

“About a year ago. I was working on the piece that you saw in my apartment because I hadn’t been able to get that cover—or that book—out of my head in the four years since I’d read it and done the cover. Rhonda…” He hesitated at the mention of his ex’s name, but Caylor didn’t flinch. “Rhonda insisted I needed at least one more tattoo to make me look like a real artist. I guess, subconsciously, I already knew that Rhonda wasn’t the right person for me, since she never liked this design or the fact I’d painted romance novel covers.”

Pink patches appeared on Caylor’s pale cheeks. “You permanently marked yourself with the image of one of the covers you did for one of my books.”

“Rather fitting now, don’t you think?” He pulled her hand away from where she continued to trace the black outlines of the full-color tattoo, knowing he’d have a hard time keeping himself from reacting physically to her touch if she kept it up.

“Has your mom seen this one?”

He released her hand and smoothed the sleeve down. “No. And I don’t intend on her seeing it if I can help it—not with the way she reacted to this one.” He held out his right arm so she could see the Titian tattoo on the inside of his elbow. She sounded out the Latin, and he explained to her what it meant.

“No wonder you made a bigger deal over finding out your mom had a tattoo and not that she’d run off and gotten married at eighteen.” Caylor reached for the dark purple trench coat she’d taken off and draped over an empty bar stool when they’d come in.

Dylan assisted her into it and then shrugged back into his blazer. “It surprised me to find out that Mother has a past like that. But it’s kind of helped me understand why she’s always been so afraid of letting us make our own mistakes. She almost ruined her life. She doesn’t want to see her boys do the same thing.” He snorted. “Though in my case, her fears were justified.”

“Like mother like son? Each flirted with disaster, but each managed to escape before the ruination was complete.” Caylor hooked her purse strap over her shoulder.

“Something like that.” He settled his hands on her shoulders. “You don’t have to do this, you know.”

“I want to get to know your parents.”

“I’d really rather not expose you to them more often than necessary.”

Caylor took his hands and pulled him toward the door. “Don’t worry. Between your stories and Perty’s warnings, I don’t think there’s anything they could do or say that would shock me.”

At Caylor’s prompting, Dylan told her about the paintings he’d sold and the two gallery showings he’d lined up while she was in New York. “I still have a bunch of the old stuff to get rid of, and if people are willing to pay me for them, why throw them away?”

“But you’re not planning on doing any more in that style, are you?”

“No—that’s my past. I’m back to doing what I love: portraits and historical.”

“Good. Those are the ones I like best.” Caylor indicated the turn Dylan had almost missed.

Even for this early on a Thursday evening, the parking lot behind Sunset Grill was full, so Dylan pulled up to the valet stand. He grinned at Caylor as one of the valets opened her door. “Mother would be scandalized if I self-parked.”

He met her on the sidewalk, offered her his arm, and escorted her into the restaurant.

“Table for two?” the hostess asked.

“Four—there should be a reservation under Bradley.”

She looked down at the book. “Oh yes. This way, please.”

Dylan took several deep breaths as the hostess led them through a couple of crowded dining rooms and to…an empty table.

“We’ll bring the rest of your party back when they arrive.”

Speechless, Dylan stared at the empty table, then looked at his watch: 6:05. He’d been certain Mother and Dad would be sitting here, glaring daggers at them for daring to arrive late.

“Thank you.” Caylor’s voice broke through his shock.

He turned to look at her.

“Are you okay?” She touched his cheek and then his forehead.

“I can’t believe they’re not here yet.”

She laughed softly. “I’m sure they’ll be here in a minute.” She sat before he could collect himself enough to assist her with her chair.

As soon as he gained his seat, he looked up to see the hostess leading his parents through the room. A couple at the table near the door stopped Mother to speak to her, and everyone else turned to look—but apparently since she wasn’t a music star, she was of no interest, because they all went back to their dinners and conversations.

Both Dylan and Caylor stood when his parents approached their table.

“Dylan, darling.” Mother made a big show of giving him a kiss on the cheek. “Forgive us for being late. Court ran late, and then I had a strategy meeting after that.”

Dad shook hands with Caylor and greeted her in a stiff, professional manner.

“Now, Caylor, let me get a good look at you, since I didn’t get a chance to at the auction a couple of weeks ago.” Mother took Caylor’s hands in hers and gave her the once over. Her smile grew. “Why, Dylan, I thought you said she was older than you. I refuse to believe it.”

Dylan waited until he bent to help Caylor scoot in her chair before he rolled his eyes.

The first several minutes were spent discussing the menu and ordering.

Dad laid his napkin across his lap. “So, Caylor, tell us a little about yourself. Dylan says you’re a Nashville native?”

“Yes sir. I was born and raised right here. Harpeth Hall, Vanderbilt, the whole nine yards.” Caylor seemed so at ease, so poised, as if she did this kind of thing—impressing someone else’s parents—every day.