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)
“It’s called lots of long work nights and building tolerance,” Nick says. “You’d be surprised how good bad can taste when you need to stay awake and focused.” His cellphone rings where it rests on the counter.
He grabs it and glances at the caller ID, his jaw setting hard as he stands back up. “I need to take this.” Apparently, that translates to alone, because he’s already exiting the kitchen.
“And then there were two,” Abel says dramatically, pattering fingers on the table, as if creating music. “Don’t worry,” he adds. “I do awkward small talk better than the average guy. For instance, I hear you’re not only an artist but that you made a big sale last night. Congrats.”
“Thank you,” I say, feeling a bit taken aback and awkward that he knows about my payday. “I guess Nick has been talking.”
“Bragging,” he says.
A warm spot forms in my chest with the realization that Nick doesn’t just support me when he’s with me, but even when he is not. “That’s nice to hear.”
“Nice,” he repeats. “Nice and Nick don’t really want to compute for me, but maybe it’s the whiskey. What are you going to do to celebrate your payday?”
Pay back Nick a chunk of the money he paid the bank, I think, but that’s none of his business, so I settle on a generic, “Pay bills.”
“Huh. A new car or even shoes would be a sexy celebration. Bills. Not so sexy.”
“Sexy has never been on the top of my priority list,” I say. “And paying bills is much sexier than not paying bills.”
“That’s true,” he says. “And I’m sure Nick will help you celebrate anyway.”
“He did that by being with me at the gallery last night.”
He arches a brow. “And gave you a gift, I assume? The man is rolling in money, which I’m sure you know.”
A fizzle of unease slides through me. “I know he has money.”
“A lot of money,” Abel pushes. “You know that, right?”
“He told me,” I say, my discomfort growing exponentially, as does my regret over the whiskey that still has me feeling less than sharp.
“Did he?” Abel asks in what feels like feigned surprise. “Huh. He usually doesn’t share details because, you know, everyone wants something from him.” He stares me down, all signs of humor gone now, his green eyes cold, hard, as he adds, “Do you?”
Chapter Nine
Faith
I blanch at Abel’s question and obvious accusation, but I recover quickly. “That’s direct,” I say, realizing what should have been obvious. He’s sizing me up, looking for the vulture in a butterfly’s clothing.
“Do you have a problem with direct?”
“Actually, I prefer it,” I say. “Namely because I dislike secrets. So, to answer your question: yes. I want many things from Nick, but none of those things include his money.” I think of my fake friends back in L.A. who turned out to be all about Macom and his fame, which spurs me to add, “And for the record, I find the idea of a friend who wants to protect him enviable.”
Surprise flickers in his eyes, and when I believe he’s about to reply, Nick reappears. “What’s enviable?” he asks, claiming the stool next to me again.
“My hot body,” Abel says, holding out his hands to his sides. “Which is why I stay single. I need to spread the wealth.” The doorbell rings, and he is on his feet in an instant. “I’ll get that,” he announces, already walking toward the door.
“He’s a piece of work,” Nick says, and we face each other as he adds, “but I’m sure you figured that out.”
“I did,” I say. “But I think I might like him.”
“Think?”
“I’ll decide after I have more food than whiskey in me,” I reply, appreciating Abel’s loyalty to Nick but not necessarily his approach in showing it. “Do you two work together?” I ask.
“No,” he says, “but we run cases by each other with surprisingly good results, considering our fields of expertise.”
“You trust him,” I observe.
“I call no one that I can’t trust a friend.”
A comment that brings my little chat with Abel full circle. “Because everyone must want something from you.”
His hand settles on my leg. “Where did that just come from, Faith?”
“The number that represents your holdings,” I say. “It’s rather sobering, quite literally.”
“Most people would find it intriguing.”
“I’m not most people, Nick.”
“With that,” he says, “I would agree.”
“Money changes people.”
“I’ve had money all my life, sweetheart. Adding a few extra zeroes isn’t a character-changing event for me.”
“I get that,” I say. “But just as money can make the holder less than genuine in many ways, it makes those around the money holder tend to be less than genuine. Nick, I don’t want your money.”
His eyes, which are always so damn hard, soften. “I know that, Faith,” he says, seeming to understand that I’m speaking beyond the bank note.