Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 83912 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 420(@200wpm)___ 336(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83912 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 420(@200wpm)___ 336(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
“Is this where you say ‘too fucking glad’?”
“This is where I take you home and get you naked before I find a way to piss you off and it never happens.”
She laughs, soft and sexy, and slides into the car. I’m inside with her in a few beats, and before I start the car, she says, “Can I get the bad stuff over with real quick?”
I angle toward her. “What bad stuff, Faith?”
“Anything with the bank?”
“I filed papers. They filed papers. I’m filing more papers. Bottom line, I made a big move, and I’ll know more on Monday about how that plays out.”
“What big move?”
“Legal stuff,” I say, not about to tell her about the money. Not now. I’ll swim in the shit I’ve created all at once and with a plan. “And I’m asking you to trust me enough to set it aside until Monday. Okay?”
“Yes. Okay.”
“Good.” I lean over and kiss her because, fuck. I have to. And then I get us on the road.
“How was your flight?” I ask.
“Short and bumpy,” she says. “But it was great. I love flying.”
“But you’ve never flown internationally,” I say. “We need to fix that. Paris is all about art and wine. We should go.”
“That would be incredible, but right now I can’t leave.”
“We’re going to fix that, and soon,” I promise. “Tell me the details you know about the L.A. show.”
“Josh just told me that I’m in,” she says. “I’m sure I’ll get more specifics by Monday.”
“And you know which pieces were selected?”
“Nick. Don’t be mad, but…”
I glance over at her and laugh. “You put me in it, didn’t you?”
“I did. My first portrait, and on a whim when I was filling out the forms and submitting photos, I included it. You’re not mad, right?”
“I don’t care if you put me in the show, as long as it’s about you.”
“Maybe you are a little sweet, Nick Rogers.”
“I’ll put that idea to rest before the weekend’s over, I promise you. And that means you have to let me see it.”
“I will. When it’s done. I have two weeks to finish. I think this weekend might just let me finish your eyes.”
And on that note, I silently vow to make sure that every time she looks at me this weekend, she sees all the right things and none of the wrong.
Fifteen minutes later, we pull into the garage of my house, which is only a few minutes from my office. Faith is out of the car before I can round the BMW to help her, gaping at the dark gray sports car beside us. She bites her lip and glances over at me. “You are such a rich guy, Nick Rogers. What is it?”
“Audi R8 5.2 V10,” I say. “And thank you. I work my ass off to be such a rich guy, and I owned that assessment long before I inherited my father’s money.”
“How did you make your first million?”
“A drug company whose best-of-the-best attorney wasn’t as good as they thought.” He was also my father, but I don’t tell her that. Not now. One day when there are no more secrets. “Let’s go inside, Faith.”
“Yes. Let’s go see what a man like you calls home.”
“A man like me,” I say. “You can explain that later. Naked.”
She gives me one of her sexy, confident smiles. “I will.”
I open the back door. “I’ll get your bag. The door’s unlocked. Make yourself at home.”
She doesn’t hesitate. She drags delicate fingers through her long blonde hair and walks to the door and up the short set of steps that leads to the foyer of my home. I take my time pursuing her, allowing her to decide what to do and where to go, curious as to where that takes us both. Intrigued by this woman all over again, I join her, leaving her bag by the door, to find her slowly walking the rectangular-shaped space, and I scan it, taking in what she sees. Pale wooden floors, a gray sectional. Parallel to the living area is a bar that is shiny white with four barstools, and opposite it are two modern steel-and-glass stairwells that climb the walls in two different directions.
She turns to face me with distance between us I don’t intend to remain. “Clean, artistic lines. A house for a man who likes control.”
“I do like control,” I say, closing a foot of space between us. “I think that I like control.”
She replies as if I haven’t spoken those words. “It’s a beautiful house, Nick. It smells like you.”
“And how do I smell, Faith?”
“Like control. Like sex. Woodsy and sexy.”
“And you, sweetheart, smell like—”
“Amber and vanilla.”
“Yes, you do. And I’m obsessed with your scent. I’m obsessed with you.”
“Obsessed,” she says. “That sounds dangerous.”
“It is dangerous.”
And her reply is everything any man could want. “Where is your bedroom, Nick?”