Total pages in book: 48
Estimated words: 44167 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 221(@200wpm)___ 177(@250wpm)___ 147(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 44167 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 221(@200wpm)___ 177(@250wpm)___ 147(@300wpm)
“Just send him a message.”
“What, right now?”
Alex rolls her eyes and laughs. “Yes! You don’t need to be coy about how you feel. Don’t bother playing it cool. We’re adults now. Just tell him you’d like to meet up tonight. You already know he’s interested, so go for it.”
“Really? I can just do that?” I ask, my eyes wide.
Alex laughs again. “Yes. Do it now, go on. By the time we finish the second half of the lecture, he’ll probably have replied, and you can go and get ready straight from here.”
I bite my lip. I think she’s probably right. I trust Alex – she has more experience in dating than me, and she’s got a good head on her shoulders most of the time. When she’s not irresponsibly dragging me out to parties on nights before lectures, that is. But then again, I guess that turned out to be for the best as well because I otherwise wouldn’t have met Finn.
I take a deep breath and type out a quick, simple message, reminding him that I’m the girl he met last night and letting him know I’m free. With Alex’s watchful eye on my face, I pause for only one second.
“Do it,” she says, encouragingly.
“Are you sure?” I ask. “Maybe you should read what I wrote.”
Alex pushes the phone back towards me without looking at it. “Do it now!”
I press send and then squeal, amazed that I managed to do something so brave – and with my heart now pounding in my chest as I wait for a reply.
Chapter Eight
Finn
“Alright, Robiye,” I say, hating the fact that he spells his name that way. I know for a fact his birth certificate says, Robert. He’s just being another prima donna artist that wants to look mysterious and exotic, even though he’s actually just another ‘Robbie’. “So, you’ve prepared a presentation for today?”
“I have,” he says, simpering as he sets down a laptop in front of me, sashaying his hips from side to side. The fact that I ignore women hitting on me all the time does have some unfortunate side effects men sometimes assume that I’m actually playing for their team instead. But I’m not, and it doesn’t matter how tight Robiye’s leather pants are or how much he shimmies them in front of my face. I’m going to judge his art on the art, and nothing else. “I’ll take you through the slides one at a time.”
I settle back into my chair and watch as he opens a presentation featuring images of his colorful paintings, listening to him drone on about the symbolism in each one. Personally, I don’t rate his art very highly, but for some reason, it’s extremely sought-after in some communities. That means that I have to put up with Robiye and even stock his art in the gallery, even though I really wish I could avoid it. It will net me a hefty commission, as well as the prestige of being his preferred gallery, so I have to smile and nod and pretend I can stand to endure his conversation.
My phone pings as he talks about the use of a very particular shade of magenta in one of his pieces and how it will look so good on the wall near the entranceway, and I can’t help myself: I take a look at the message. As soon as my eyes hit the words I feel my heart jump in my chest, and I sit up straighter in my chair.
It’s her.
I can’t stop myself from grinning as I read her message several times. She wants to meet up with me tonight. It shouldn’t be a problem – after an exhibition launch I’m often up late working on orders and commissions, but I can make an exception for her. I send her a reply telling her to meet me outside the college campus since I know that’s where I can easily find her, tonight at seven. I’ll take her somewhere special.
I’m thinking about that, and whether I should call somewhere to book ahead or try to get an online booking while Robiye finishes his presentation when all hell breaks loose.
It starts with Robiye slamming his hand down on the table, which definitely gets my attention. I frown at him, at the spot where his hand impacted on my expensive one-of-a-kind sculptural desk, and then meet his eyes. He’s not backing down or looking worried like people normally would when I give them a glare. Instead, he looks furious. His face is red, practically steaming with rage.
“You haven’t even been listening to me,” Robiye hisses, obviously very annoyed with me.
I should have been paying attention. He’s right about that. It was rude. But I’ve sat through a lot of these presentations with him before, and he never says anything different. And we both know this is pretty much just a formality; we’ll take his work because I know it will sell.