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 sigh. “Yes.”
He laughs. “Let’s get out of here.”
Leaving the winery behind in the many ways that currently apply comes with relief, but arriving to the house I’d bought as an escape from it doesn’t feel like an escape anymore. It feels like a part of that excuse this entire town had, unknowingly, become to me. Once we’re on the porch, we find packaging left by FedEx to package up my art. Nick and I pull them inside and start carrying the supplies upstairs. Once we set the first lot down, he heads for the stairs. “I’ll get the rest, sweetheart.”
Scanning the work I’ll soon ship off to L.A., my attention lingers on the painting of Nick—his eyes, and the secrets in their depths, my focus. I don’t have any secrets left. He knows who I am. He knows what I am, and yet he still holds back. I grapple with an array of varied thoughts and where they lead me, but Nick’s footsteps sound before I reach a conclusion.
I walk to the floor-to-ceiling window and stare out at the night sky, the canvas of a full moon and the twinkle of at least a dozen stars. Nick steps to my side, his hand at my waist, a possessive quality to his touch. “You need a studio like this in San Francisco. We’ll hire someone to build it, or we’ll just buy another house.”
I face him. “You want to buy a new house because of me?”
“I want a place that you feel is yours, not mine.”
“Because I didn’t pack this one up to take with me?”
“I want you to feel like you’re home. Like you did here.”
Like I did here, I think, those thoughts I’d started to have when he was downstairs charging at me again. “The day I moved into this house with all my renovations done, I stood right here and watched the sun set, and I told myself: now I could be happy in this town. But once the sun set, do you know what I did? Nothing. I didn’t paint. I built this beautiful studio and told myself it would inspire me, but I didn’t paint. And when I was packing today, your words kept coming to me.”
“My words?”
“You said you don’t like who I am here. And I don’t like who I am here. So, no. I don’t want to take a lot of my stuff with me. This place was a placeholder. It’s time to move on. I don’t want to be here. I want to go home, to San Francisco, with you, Nick. Tonight. Or tomorrow when FedEx picks up my art.”
“Then we’ll leave tomorrow.”
“Good. But I do think that, if I’m honest with you, I’m not without hesitation. I keep thinking that you will break me or me you.”
“We’ve already determined that we’re both broken. But we’re better together than we are apart.”
“Anything too good to be true is too good to be true.”
“Sometimes it’s just good, sweetheart.”
“But you’re not a good guy, Nick, remember?”
“I’m not good,” he says, “but I’m a hell of a lot better with you than without you.”
“Then you need to confess your sins, Nick.”
He goes completely, utterly still. “What sins, Faith?”
“The ones you haven’t told me. The ones you don’t want to tell me. Trust me that much. Because it’s not what you haven’t told me that feeds distrust. It’s about your unwillingness to tell me.”
He snags my hips and pulls me to him. “When I’m ready, remember?”
“Yes. Agreed. But I’m already exposed and on the line with you, more so than ever by moving to the city with you. So, when do you think you’ll be ready?”
“When I’ve made it impossible for you to live without me.”
“Because you think I’ll want to leave when you expose yourself?”
“Yes,” he says solemnly. “I do. But you need to know that I’ll fight for you.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Nick
Tonight, I tell Faith about the club.
After a hell of a good weekend with Faith, I arrive to work early Monday with that vow in my mind—and a sense of relief. Not only will she know that I owned the club, she’ll know that I sold it and that she was far more important to me than it ever was.
By eight, I’ve already drafted Kasey’s documents, contacted Faith, and sent them to her to review. Rita shows up about the time I’ve hit send, dressed in a red dress, with the redheaded attitude. “Oh, look,” she says, waving her hands over her voluptuous figure. “We match. Your tie and my dress. Aren’t we adorable?”
I give her a deadpan look. “Sometimes I think you forget it’s me you work for.”
“Sometimes, I think you forget it’s me who works for you. And moving on. Landmark properties. It comes with regulations on property improvement but the potential to create a tax-exempt organization.”