Total pages in book: 142
Estimated words: 137205 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 686(@200wpm)___ 549(@250wpm)___ 457(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 137205 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 686(@200wpm)___ 549(@250wpm)___ 457(@300wpm)
I’m wearing a pair of work leggings and one of Calvin’s shirts, no bra underneath. My hair is messy and pulled up so it’s out of my face while I work.
I’m certain the Persian rug covering the living room floor was quite expensive because everything in Calvin’s house is expensive. Currently, I’m using it as a mess mat. Several pages of the children’s book I’m working on are laid out across the rug. I painted the backgrounds with watercolors and cut out the snowman, cabin, and tree to glue down on top. But it’s a winter story and it’s supposed to be snowing in most of the panels, so I have one final touch before they’re finished.
Beside me left thigh is a bowl full of watered down white tempera paint. I have an assortment of brushes for flicking and splattering the loose paint so it looks like fluffy snowflakes on my pictures.
If I were doing this at home, I would have used a splatter box to contain the mess.
Because I’m trying to be the biggest nuisance I possibly can be to make Calvin decide to rehome me in my own apartment, I am not. In fact, I made sure to set myself up right behind his indubitably expensive couch, ensuring maximum paint flickage on the lush material.
I feel guilty doing it. Not to him, but to the couch. Poor couch. You didn’t ask to be dragged into this.
I hear the elevator doors open.
He’s home.
My heart leaps, but I double down. I’ve already ruined the rug. Now it’s the couch’s turn.
I’m sorry, couch.
I take a deep breath, then like a child set loose with its first paint set, I begin flicking white paint all over the pictures—and the rugs, and the couch. Some even makes it off the rug and hits the floor.
It’s more stressful than fun, and it’s not even my own home I’m trashing.
I feel horrible, but I pretend not to. I flick and splatter my way across the pictures in front of me, then I scoot over and begin on the next ones.
Hollis stands with his hands clasped in front of him, the way I imagine a secret service agent might when they’re standing guard over the president. He looks over as Calvin enters the room, then immediately looks back at me.
I flash Calvin the brightest smile, holding up my paint brush. “You’re home.”
His gaze rakes over me in his pricey dress shirt, now splattered and dyed with various shades of paint. I watch his eyes register the damage to the rug, and as he walks around the couch, he notices that, too.
As he gets closer to me, my heart begins to race, but I try not to let it show. I don’t want him to know he’s making me nervous. He’s not even trying to, I just feel like a child who knows I’ve misbehaved and now I’ll surely be punished.
And with him, I’m not sure what that punishment might be.
He says nothing about the mess I’ve made. His gaze flickers to the pages I illustrated, spaced out across his rug. “Lovely.”
I blink. “Oh. You think so?”
“Mm-hmm. I like your color choices. The snow is a perfect finishing touch.” He leans down to kiss me on the cheek. “I like you wearing my shirt, too. I see you did miss me today. Needed my scent all over your body.” He caresses my cheek, looking more amused than annoyed. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. You’ll get plenty of it later.”
I blink up at him, confused. He’s not even mad.
Rats.
I know he saw the paint I flicked all over the place, but just in case he missed it—the paint is white, like the couch, so maybe he didn’t notice that.
“I got paint everywhere. I hope you don’t mind. I’m quite messy when I’m working.”
He smiles faintly. “Not at all, my love. We can turn one of the spare bedrooms into your studio if you’d like.”
Goddammit, why isn’t he mad?
I scowl up at him and he smiles back, then he turns away and walks into his office with his briefcase.
I’m still sitting on my legs holding a paintbrush and pouting when he comes back in.
“Chef Ryan will be here soon,” Calvin says, flicking a glance at my outfit, his gaze lingering on the swatch of skin exposed below my neck. “You should finish what you’re working on so you can clean yourself up before dinner.”
“I ruined the couch,” I state, still clinging to the idea that perhaps he doesn’t realize the extent of the damage. “The rug, too. This won’t wash out.”
“Yes,” he says dryly. “Your creative way of telling me you’d like to remodel has been noted. It’s your home now, too; if you don’t like the furnishings, just tell me and we’ll pick something out together.”
Well, that didn’t go to plan at all.