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These golden afternoons have become a delicious habit: Parisian parks, languid heat, and Amy March. Laurie sprawls on grass, drifting with the clouds, senses full of summer and Amy.He hooks a foot around her ankle; she pulls it back, flutters her hands at him in a shooing motion. At his flash of unrepentant grin, she sighs. "Go," Amy orders. With her, Laurie knows no other than to obey.He meanders along the water, attempts to amuse himself to please her, but it's no good. Minutes later, he circles back to approach silently from behind, indulges himself in watching the hypnotic motions of her sketching.
Crouching, he sets his chin on her shoulder. She squawks in protest. "Are you so focused, Raphaella, to ignore even pleasant company?""You think yourself so?"Roguish lips curl upward; despite herself, Amy mirrors him. Distracting her is his favorite challenge.Laurie flops once more beside her, now draped halfway on her blanket. From somewhere, unindulged impulse strikes, to lay his head in Amy's lap. What would those hands, so busy in flight, feel like soothing through his hair?"Dinner tonight?"
"If Aunt March allows.""I'll persuade her."With Laurie's favorite smirk: "Persuade, or badger?"