Because under the autumn sun, Jamie’s dark blond hair is a stunning bronze, the faint promise of russet in the shadowy dips of his waves. His hazel eyes are emeralds slivered with gold, and everything about his tall, trim body seems even more statuesque. He’s the stuff of sculptures I stared at reverently in European museums, of artwork that made me fall in love with drawing the human form. In nature’s best lighting, Jamie Westenberg—I hate to admit—is nothing short of magnificent.
