Total pages in book: 111
Estimated words: 105708 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 529(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105708 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 529(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
“I know that.”
“Just in case you don’t know. I’m never going to hurt you, and I damn sure will never share you. You know that, right?”
“I already told you. I like when Tiger comes out to play. And don’t start thinking I’m some shrinking violet, Nick Rogers. I told you some stuff. You know. Move on. And if you underestimate me, I’ll end up on top every time that way. And sometimes I prefer you on top.”
“As long as I’m inside you, sweetheart,” I say. “I’ll be on top, bottom, sideways, or any which way.”
She shoves against my chest. “Go make coffee or whatever you do before work.”
I laugh and step away from her and leave her in the bathroom, taking a path toward the stairs, but once I’m there, I pause, my curiosity over how Faith’s new work is developing winning me over. Walking in that direction, I enter the studio, cross to the painting, and stare at what has become a dramatically changed image that downright punches me in the gut. I’m looking at two eyes that I know represent “An eye for an eye.” Words she connects to Macom’s betrayal. Macom, who she dreamed about last night. Suddenly, I feel like the fool, on my knees for a woman who’s on her knees for another man. I don’t want to believe that’s true, but I don’t know how else to read this, either.
I cross the studio and don’t even consider the bedroom. I have a job to do and, as Faith herself said, a focus I need to maintain. I gather my work from my office and end up in the kitchen, where I set my briefcase on the island bar. Faith hurries down the stairs, her blonde hair bouncing right along with her beautiful fucking breasts in a light blue V-neck t-shirt, her purse on her shoulder. In this moment, I do not want to want her, and yet, as she nears and I watch the sway of her hips, my damn cock decides to stand at attention.
Where the fuck is my discipline?
“I thought you’d be on cup number two by now,” she says, stepping to the counter directly across from me.
“I took another look at your painting,” I say, deciding my focus is important. And she’s distracting the fuck out of me.
“And?” she asks, sounding almost hopeful.
“And what, Faith?”
“What do you think? If you hate it—”
“You dreamt about Macom, and now you’re painting about Macom.”
She blanches. “What? No. That is not at all the case.”
“It seems pretty damn clear.”
“Then it’s you who doesn’t trust me, Nick. You who don’t trust us. Because I told you about the dream, and I told you that dream was about us. And I did what I told you I was going to do. I’m getting Macom the hell out of our relationship. I’m facing the past. I’m owning it. And I own things by painting them.”
“Is that painting going in the show? Is it to get his attention?”
“Oh my God. Did you hear anything I just said to you?”
“Answer the questions,” I bite out.
“You’re being a complete asshole right now, Nick Rogers. That painting is for me. For us. It’s not meant for any other eyes.”
I stare at her several beats, and she stares right back at me, not a blink. And I believe her. “I’m an asshole,” I say.
“Yes, Nick Rogers, you are. You really are.”
“Because you make me crazy.”
“So, it’s my fault that you’re an asshole? Considering you were an asshole the night I met you, I’m pretty sure you mastered that skill long before you came along.”
“I’m apparently practicing that skill right now. How am I doing?”
“Exceptionally well.”
“I might end up in jail when I meet this guy.”
“At least you’ll have Abel to represent you.”
I laugh, never a step ahead of this woman. “Indeed. At least I do. Will you visit me in jail?”
“I’d prefer to just keep you out of jail.” Her mood shifts, darkens. “He’s not worth it.”
“But you are.”
“Is that your way of apologizing for being an asshole?”
“If I want to apologize, I’ll apologize,” I counter.
“So, you don’t want to apologize?”
My cellphone starts ringing, and I grimace. “And so Monday begins.” I grab my phone from my pocket and glance at the caller ID, then at Faith. “A client who never uses my cell,” I say, answering the line. “Devon.”
“Holy hell, Nick. The feds want to talk to me. I have a deal that went sour. I’m scared, man. I need help.” When a hedge fund billionaire sounds like he might just start crying like a baby, you know he’s in trouble.
“What the fuck did you do, Devon?” I demand and then quickly say, “Don’t answer that on the phone. Meet me in my office in twenty minutes.” I end the call and dial Abel. “Heads up. Devon Stein. He’s getting a visit from the feds. I need you to consult.”