Her phone buzzed beside her on the bedside table, and Libitz reached for it, frowning when she realized it was a series of texts from Neil asking about her trip. She sat up in bed, sighing as she cataloged this new development in her so-called boyfriend. Neil hadn’t been much for watchdogging her before now, but inviting him to sleep over seemed to have opened a floodgate of some kind. He asked questions about her trip and shared the mundane minutiae of his day. Neil was a good, solid man, but she really didn’t want to hear about the number of Challah orders that were placed this year for Yom Kippur. And knowing that his mother had reached out to her parents to join them for dinner on Friday night added a pressure to the situation she suddenly resented.
Libitz groaned, placing the phone back on the bedside table and scooching under the covers.
What had changed?
“Oh, God,” she mumbled.
Monday night. Asking him to sleep over on Monday night. That’s what had changed things.
Apparently, sleeping together—or even the promise of sleeping together—was as good as a de facto engagement for Neil. Libitz’s breathing hitched uncomfortably as she picked up her phone and scrolled through the messages again.
No doubt. Neil’s whole tone had changed, and she grimaced darkly.
For Libitz, having sex would have been about testing the waters (and Neil’s goods). But for Neil, it was a lot more serious. In fact, she sensed that it would likely be the last step before he proposed marriage. Which meant that by asking him to stay over on Monday night, she’d inadvertently sent him the message that she was almost ready for…matrimony.
She groaned, furious with herself for not being more in touch with the situation and acting so impulsively when she called Neil from Jean-Christian’s car yesterday. Because she suddenly realized—with startling clarity—that she wasn’t interested in getting more serious with Neil.
Which meant that…
“Fuck,” she muttered.
…Jean-Christian, damn him, was right. She was only using Neil to push the man she wanted out of her heart and mind. And in fact, that’s what she’d been doing all along.
As soon as possible, she needed to end things with Neil before they got any more serious. She didn’t want to hurt him, but she feared that was inevitable now. She’d raised his expectations to a level she’d never intended, and it was entirely her own selfish fault.
Blowing out an exasperated breath as she picked up her phone to call Neil, it buzzed in her hands, and she checked out the screen.
JC: Elsa…you up?
As a rush of adrenaline made her skin prickle with excitement and awareness, she typed back, “Yes. Just.” Her heart practically beat out of her chest with anticipation.
JC: So I read through the journal, and I figured out something.
MyPhone: Tell me!
JC: First…I bet you’re hot in the AM.
Yes, she was superhot with her hair sticking up everywhere and her frayed cotton sleeping shorts halfway down her legs.
MyPhone: Quit it. Tell me what you learned.
JC: Second…I dreamed about you last night.
Libitz sucked in a gasp of breath, her inner muscles convulsing one last time just from reading his text.
MyPhone: You did?
JC: Third…the dream was crazy hot.
She lay back on the pillows, her fingers finding her still-sensitive clit and brushing it gingerly.
MyPhone: It was?
JC: You were the model, and I was the painter.
She whipped her hand back and scrambled to sit up, staring at the phone, goose bumps rising over her flesh. She’d had the exact same dream.
“Oh, my God.” She bit her lip, trying to figure out what to say. She couldn’t very well say “Me too!” Taking a shaky breath, she ran her fingers over the words before responding.
MyPhone: You were painting me?
JC: Every inch of you.
Her whole body blushed, and she grinned, thinking of how tiny she’d felt sitting beside him in the attic yesterday.
MyPhone: Must not have taken very long.
JC: I took my time.
As delicious as it was to flirt with him…one, she owed it to Neil to break off things first, and two, she needed to keep her wits. Jean-Christian was a minefield of a man. She needed to be very careful not to get swept away if she wanted any sort of real future with him; he was capable of breaking her heart in half.
MyPhone: Are you going to tell me about the journal or what?
JC: Ok. Ok. He paid out 290 Fr. to a C.T. on Aug 30, 1939. It’s in his notes on the side of his ledger where he itemizes the expenses for the portrait. I’m thinking that has to be the model. All the other costs are associated with an art store.
MyPhone. C.T.?
JC: Her initials?
“C.T.,” she whispered, nodding her head. “Who are you?”
MyPhone: I’ll e-mail some galleries now and see if they have any of Montferrat’s work on display. Maybe she appears in another portrait and we can figure out her name.
JC: Sounds good.
MyPhone: See you later?
JC: Can’t wait. Wear something hot.
MyPhone: Pig.
JC: There’s my Elsa.?
She grinned, placing her phone back on the bedside table as she hopped out of bed to take a shower.
***
J.C. chuckled at her text, then placed his phone back on the bedside table.