Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 104532 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 523(@200wpm)___ 418(@250wpm)___ 348(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 104532 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 523(@200wpm)___ 418(@250wpm)___ 348(@300wpm)
“You slept so soundly I didn’t want to wake you,” he says, carrying the bacon to the table. “There’s maple syrup and honey. Coffee?”
“Um, thanks.” I tuck my hair behind my ear. “You didn’t have to go to so much trouble.”
“You didn’t eat much last night, and it’s your first day at your new job.” Resting his elbows on the table, he puts us on eye level. “I still think you should look into publishing.”
“My drawings?”
He pulls out a chair and sits down. “What else?”
“I thought…” I bite my lip, not wanting to admit out loud what he thinks about my art matters to me.
Grabbing a piece of bacon, he bites into it. “I told you they were good.”
“They’re dark. Sexual.”
“That’s part of what makes them so good.”
I blink. “Do you mean that?”
He smiles. “Do I say things I don’t mean?”
“Your expression when you looked at them told a different story.”
“That’s because I didn’t like how you drew me. It had nothing to do with your art.”
My cheeks heat knowing he noticed that I poured many of my own emotions into those drawings.
When I don’t reply, he says, “Those space monsters are me, aren’t they?”
“Not all of them,” I say softly.
His nod is resigned. “Well, they’re damn good, and it’ll be a pity to hide them under the bed or wherever you keep them.”
“I don’t know. Selling them anonymously is one thing. Publishing them in a story book is another.”
Tilting his head, he studies me. “Are you afraid of showing the world who you truly are?” When I remain silent again, he says, “Because you shouldn’t be. You should be proud. I am.”
My lips part in surprise. Automatically, I search for the lie in his eyes, but he holds my gaze squarely. My mom loves me—I never doubt that—but the only person who’s even been truly proud of me was my Aunt Ginger.
“Gus and my mom won’t be happy,” I say.
He pushes back his chair and goes to the coffee machine. “Tough luck. It’s your life. You’re living with me now. The only opinion that matters is mine.”
The wrongness of that declaration isn’t lost on me. He’s telling me in not so many words that everything will happen with his approval. Yet it doesn’t bother me half as much as it should. I’m too blown away by the fact that he’s not disgusted by my sketches.
“You should make a few online inquiries,” he says, sauntering back with the pot of coffee in one hand and a mug in the other. Pouring the coffee, he adds, “It can’t hurt to send your portfolio to a few agents. Besides, I checked out some of your sketch titles on the internet, and you already have a cult following that will count in your favor.”
I utter a nervous laugh. “Finding an agent won’t be easy.”
“You won’t know if you don’t try. Won’t you enjoy that more than drawing tattoo designs?”
“Sure, but—”
“Good.” He adds two spoons of sugar to the coffee. “You need your own working space with a proper drawing desk, a professional chair, and lots of natural light. We can convert the spare bedroom into an office, or if you prefer, we can extend the house to the back and close a portion of the patio.”
“Hold on. This is going way too fast. What if no one is interested in my sketches?”
He puts the coffee in front of me and leaves the pot on a cork plate. “Any agent who sees your work will want to grab you up before someone else does.”
He’s being too kind, breaking down my resistance one soft kiss and warm praise at a time. It’s confusing. I don’t get it. Up until the day before yesterday, he hated me. It’s also scary, because I can’t afford to let him get under my skin.
I observe him through my lashes. “Why are you being so nice to me?”
Sitting down opposite me, he crosses his arms on the table. “That’s a strange question coming from my wife.”
“You know what I mean.” Guilt heats my cheeks. “Aren’t I the enemy?”
His expression sobers. “I want this—us—to work. We’re in it for better or worse. No matter what you do, you’ll always be mine. What you need to understand is that I didn’t pay you to treat you like a sex worker who doesn’t matter to me. I paid you to remind myself of what’s at stake, but I’m tired of bashing heads. This was never my plan for us.”
His honesty takes me by surprise, but my skin is thick. I’m too hardened by years of mistrust and self-preservation to disregard every safety mechanism I’ve ever put into place.
“I don’t know what to say,” I admit.
For a breathless moment, disappointment invades his eyes. It’s not the answer he was hoping for, but he quickly replaces his dejection with a smile. “Why don’t you eat up while I have a shower? I’ll be ready in ten to drive you to work.”