Total pages in book: 116
Estimated words: 110458 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 552(@200wpm)___ 442(@250wpm)___ 368(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 110458 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 552(@200wpm)___ 442(@250wpm)___ 368(@300wpm)
5
Vance
I know he loves me. Even if he didn't wear his ring this morning. Even if he ghosted me for lunch. I know his biggest fear is this not working out, and then he'll have to choose. And he'll pick me—I know he will—but at what cost?
I try to lose myself in sculpting. I'm in a different atrium today, which Sky was supposed to realize when he went to my usual place at lunch and found the note I left him. I got another slab of marble delivered on the sly, with help from Pearl, so I’m working on two things at once.
This piece is different, something that I almost find intimidating. It's a religious scene—the table at the Last Supper—but everything is somewhat smaller in proportion to the man himself, whose searching eyes and vulnerable, full-lipped mouth will dominate the perspective.
It's Jesus, obviously, but it's also—in my mind—Sky. The look around the room, the wondering which ones will stand with him and which ones won't. My throat feels tight as I work on shaping the stone. I'm still days—maybe a week, even, if I work more on the other piece—from the scene itself.
I work up a sweat, and then so much so that I need new clothes. I've got some stashed in a nearby bathroom. My throat feels tight again as I walk to it, thinking of the other times, the other bathrooms. How long will things be this way, a little voice asks. I tell that voice to shut the fuck up. I don't give a shit if it's like this. It's okay. I’ve got patience in spades.
I change in a stall and wash my sore hands with cold water. It's a strange reminder that my sculpting days are numbered. My mom and her mother had asthma—like me—but also, both of them had arthritis. Already, my hands ache sometimes. I always wonder when that shit is gonna get worse. How much money can I make before I quit?
I try to tell myself it doesn’t matter.
He’ll take care of you.
I'm toweling my hands, massaging my palms, when I hear footsteps. My heart skips a beat as someone steps in. It's not Sky. My head is pounding as I walk the hall toward the atrium. I should do what Sky told me to do before we came back to work: Go into the cafeteria, talk to people. Make friends. But it feels weird. If he wanted everyone to know me, he'd be taking me around.
He's scared. I get it.
Fuck, I hate it when I'm like this. There's no reason. I just feel like shit. It's like...I need him. My chest aches because I want to see him—not only at dinner time. And isn't that quaint? Like a fucking housewife.
I'm so pissed off, at myself, mostly, that I head toward the courtyard. Maybe I should take up smoking again. I lean against a tree and rub my hands where they're sore. And then a pair of strong arms wrap around my waist.
His chin is on my shoulder—he's behind me—and his arm is crisscrossing my chest, his strong palm cupping my shoulder.
"Hey, Rayne baby." He kisses my temple as his arm wraps me against him. He kisses my cheek, near my ear. "What's with the fast heartbeat, my buddy?"
I shrug, and he comes around in front of me, his arm still wrapped around me. He kisses my forehead, looks into my eyes. "Tell your husband what's the matter. Let me fix it."
I swallow. I'm surprised to find my throat feels tight and achy. "Sorta missed you. That’s all."
Dammit, he can read me like a book now. I can tell because his eyes flare with what I realize must be guilt, and his face bends in understanding. He steps closer to me, eliminating space between us, wrapping his strong arm around my shoulders.
"I'm so sorry. V. Forgive me…please."
His mouth takes mine, and we're kissing. My throat still aches, my eyes throb, and I know that he knows somehow, because he keeps pulling his mouth off mine to whisper, "I'm so sorry, Vanny. I love you."
His kisses are amazing. So damn sensual, consuming. Being kissed by Luke here in our courtyard actually gives me chills. Pretty soon I've stopped holding myself back. My hand is in his soft hair, playing at his shirt collar, sliding in and down his warm nape. I'm taking what's mine.
Finally, I pull away because I want to rub my cheek against his. I want to look at his face and see how his day is going.
"Hey." He smiles down at me, gorgeous as ever.
"Hey there yourself."
He kisses my lips gently as his hand cups the back of my head. "How's it going, my artist?"
Even as he says those words, his eyes are an apology.
"It's going fine." I give him a smile. "How about you, PL?" I say PL with a hint of teasing, since it's not my nickname for him.