Picture Perfect by Jodi Picoult

Author:Jodi Picoult [Picoult, Jodi]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi, pdf
Tags: Mystery, Romance, Contemporary, Adult, Chick-Lit
ISBN: 9780753184264
Google: V0_G_GKQZiYC
Amazon: 0425185508
Goodreads: 10912
Publisher: Berkley Books
Published: 2013-05-24T16:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

“FINLAND.”

“Denmark.”

Alex skimmed his fingers over my ribs. “You already used Denmark.”

I caught his hands and pressed them against me. “Dominican Republic, then.”

Alex shook his head. “I already said that. You might as well admit it, you’ve lost. There are only two countries beginning with D.”

I raised my eyebrows. “Is that true?” I asked. We had been playing Geography on a lazy Thursday afternoon, and just for the challenge, we had limited ourselves to naming countries. “Prove it.”

Alex laughed. “Gladly. But you get the map.”

I pretended to move, but Alex kept his arm around me, indicating he wasn’t about to let me go. He was lying on a hunter-green striped chaise, and I was between his legs, propped against his chest. I stared at the sun as it brightened the edges of a cloud it was hiding behind.

“Do you memorize atlases in your spare time?” I teased, already knowing the answer: Alex had learned geography as a child, self-taught, by speaking the exotic names of places he’d rather have been.

Alex kissed the top of my head, and as if the events were connected, the sun stepped out from its shade. “I’m a man of rare talents and sensibilities,” he said dryly, and I wondered if he knew how true that really was.

You see, in spite of what I’ve already told you about our arrival in L.A., all my misgivings about Alex had faded. In the week we’d been home, he hadn’t gone back to work right away, leaving me to fend for myself. Instead, we had skinny-dipped in the pool, played tag in the lush boxwood hedge maze, and danced barefoot, without music, on the veranda outside the bedroom. After dinner, Alex dismissed the staff and he made love to me in a different room each night: on the mahogany desk in the library, the Persian rug in the parlor, the white wicker rocker on the screened-in back porch. This way, he said, you won’t be able to go anywhere without thinking of me. In return, I took him to UCLA, to my office, and showed him my work-in-progress at the lab, a reconstructed Australopithecene femur. I introduced him to Archibald Custer, and Alex indicated he might be inclined to give the department a sizable donation if they upgraded their tenured teaching faculty. This suggestion—which we hadn’t discussed—made me uncomfortable. I was offered an associate professorship and a fine pick of January courses, which I never would have accepted if Alex hadn’t asked me to, as a favor. You’ve changed my life, he’d said. Let me change yours. Alex spent so much time at my side—introducing me to his agent, his employees, his friends—that at one point I asked if I was going to have to support us. Not that that was a real problem. Ophelia had been right—Alex made between four and six million dollars per film, and most of the money was rolled into his own production company, Pontchartrain Productions, for tax purposes. He paid himself a salary,

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