Free Earth Angel by Siri Caldwell Page B

these?”
    “Yeah. I took an art class in college. All except for that one on the other wall—my friend Penelope drew that one for me. She’s a lot better than I am.”
    “No, you’re good. You really captured that feeling of unreality about them, the way you can see right through them.”
    Abby was looking at her funny. Why would she look at her like…She knew Gwynne could see angels, right? Anyone who spent more than an hour with her at the spa would have picked up on that popular piece of gossip.
    “You’re not even looking,” Abby said.
    “At what?”
    “At Penelope’s drawing.”
    Abby swung her arm like a traffic cop in exaggerated circles and pointed at the far wall to another framed drawing, this one done in black ink. The angel had tattered butterfly wings and wore demon-kicking thigh-high boots with lots of buckles drawn in painstaking detail. More fairy than angel, to be honest. Her wings partially obscured her torso while simultaneously making it quite clear she was otherwise nude.
    “She’s good,” Gwynne admitted despite herself. “Your friend’s got quite the imagination.”
    “She said my angels didn’t have big enough boobs. I think it was a joke.”
    “Or a come-on.” If someone drew Gwynne a picture like that, she’d definitely read into it. “Were you dating?”
    “We were just friends.”
    “Are you sure?”
    “Yes, I’m sure. It’s not like I have so many ex-girlfriends I’d get confused and not remember sleeping with her.”
    “I have a hard time believing you don’t have women falling all over you all the time.”
    Abby’s face twitched as if she didn’t know what to make of her compliment. And who could blame her? It was the type of charming, insincere comment that anyone who detected that note of bitter bewilderment in Abby’s voice would feel compelled to make. But Gwynne wasn’t insincere—she meant it. There was something irresistible about the way Abby’s freckled, heart-shaped face glowed with innocence. Something desirable about the faint crinkles at the corners of her eyes. Why hadn’t she dated more? Or had Gwynne simply misunderstood her comment?
    “Believe it.” Dismissing further debate, Abby walked to her closet and pulled out her performance dress and hung it on the back of the closet door. The dress had a navy blue satin lining with a gauzy lavender see-through overlay and navy sequins. Gwynne would not be caught dead wearing sequins, but she was positive Abby could pull it off.
    Abby hunted through a chest of drawers, rummaging through a jumble of bras, underpants and tights. “If you were my navy blue bra, where would you be?”
    Oh, dear God, she was definitely not answering that. If I were your bra… She attempted to search the room so Abby wouldn’t look at her face and see the whole list of inappropriate answers that crowded her brain.
    “I thought musicians wore black,” she said stupidly. This wasn’t an orchestra gig and she’d never seen Abby wear black.
    Abby tucked her hair behind her ear. “Black is boring. When I perform, I put on a show.”
    She didn’t need to. People didn’t hire her because her dress was nice or because her harp looked like a dragon. They hired her because her skill was breathtaking and her music sang to the vulnerable places in her audience’s hearts.
    “Besides,” Abby said, “that way if somebody hates my music, and they come up to me after the performance because their date dragged them along and they’re smiling nervously, trying to think of something to say while their date is going on and on about how great I was, they can always say I love your dress .”
    “A pity gesture for your non-fans? That’s sad.” And Gwynne didn’t believe it for a minute. “What if they don’t love your dress?”
    “What, you don’t love my dress? Everyone loves this dress.” Abby arranged the gown against the closet door to admire it. “If not, they’re welcome to lie.”
    “Then I definitely love