Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 72959 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 365(@200wpm)___ 292(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72959 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 365(@200wpm)___ 292(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
No matter how shaken I am after my awful nightmare and sleepless hours at my canvas.
I straighten my bright pink t-shirt, reminding myself of the bold black words emblazoned on the front: ON WEDNESDAYS WE SMASH THE PATRIARCHY.
It’s Saturday, but that doesn’t bother me. It’s the overall, confident vibe of the outfit that counts.
I offer Franklin a little dismissive wave, encouraging him to focus on his sales. My friend’s gaze turns back to the tourist who’s admiring his sculptures. He’s so much more skilled at selling his art than I am. Maybe if I were less socially awkward, I would earn enough to cover my rent.
As it is, I can’t survive without my barista job.
Selling my work is stressful, but it’s the only way to share my art. My landscapes will have to be enough to leave my mark on the world in some limited way.
In an attempt to be more personable, I gather my courage and step around to the front of my stall, just to the right of my paintings. My practiced smile doesn’t waver when I make deliberate, friendly eye contact with a potential customer. The elderly man returns my smile before his gaze skates over my work. He offers me a kind nod of acknowledgement but keeps walking through the market.
My heart sinks slightly, but my smile remains fixed in place. Franklin captures my attention again and gives me a thumbs-up.
Then his eyes slide past me and widen.
“Abby!” he exclaims, pointing to something behind me.
I whirl, and my heart leaps into my throat.
A man is behind my table. He’s clutching my secondhand Vera Bradley purse. The purse itself is too worn to be worth anything—the pale yellow, quilted fabric is wearing thin, and the bluebell pattern has faded over time. There’s not a lot of cash inside. I’ve only made fifty dollars from selling one painting this morning, but I need that money to buy food this week.
“Hey!” I shout, instinctively lunging for my purse to save the precious funds.
The man’s brown eyes meet mine, wide and a bit wild. His brow is creased with anxiety, and his shaved head is shiny with sweat.
“You don’t have to do this,” I say quickly. “Just leave it. Please.”
His jaw firms, and his fist crushes my purse.
I’m blocking his way to the exit. Not out of bravery; the market is busy, and my stall is at the end of the row.
“Please,” I repeat, more desperately this time. “I won’t call the cops if you just—”
He surges toward me, and I stumble back. Rough hands shove my shoulders, forcing my falling body out of his way. Stinging pain scrapes my palms as I catch myself on the concrete floor.
“Abby!” Franklin shouts my name, and I crane my head back to see that he’s scrambling around his own stall to get to me. A throng of shocked tourists separate us, and he’s pushing his way through the small crowd.
“Abigail.” That deep, lilting cadence caresses my name. “Are you all right?”
“Dane?” I ask breathlessly, turning my face to search for the familiar voice.
Forest green eyes fill my world. They’re tight with concern, fine lines drawing deep at the corners. His brow is furrowed, and those lush lips are pinched with worry.
The strong hands that I’ve painted so many times reach for me. Just like at the café yesterday, they encircle my wrists in gentle shackles. This time, he tugs my hands close to his face so that he can inspect them. He scowls at the shallow pink scratches that mar my palms. They’re not deep enough to have drawn blood, even if they do sting a bit.
“I’m okay,” I promise shakily. “I’m not hurt.”
“I’ll be the judge of that,” he counters sternly. “Stay still. I’m a doctor.”
My brain blanks for a few seconds, and I comply out of shock more than intentional cooperation. Dane is touching me again. It’s thrilling and surreal.
My heart hammers in my chest, and I’m not sure if the elevated beat is because of the encounter with the thief or because of the visceral physical reaction elicited by Dane’s nearness.
“Can you stand?” he asks, his tone low and gentle.
“Yeah.” My reply is still a touch shaky, but I try to summon up some semblance of dignity.
I tug my hands from his so that I can push myself onto my feet.
His scowl deepens, and he captures my upper arms, steadying me as I rise.
“I’ll call the cops.” Franklin is at my side, his ochre eyes flashing with anger on my behalf. He turns to the elderly man who smiled and nodded at me. “You’re a witness, right?”
The man’s nod is grim this time. “I saw everything.”
“It’s fine,” I say quickly.
I don’t want the cops involved. They’ll ask for my full, legal name. There will be paperwork. Possibly a small story in the news.