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)
“He is nothing to me. You are. I just didn’t plan to talk to him ever again.”
“You’re an artist, and so is he. You’re going to see him. We’re going to see him. Are you prepared for that?”
“Honestly? Not yet, but I will be. I didn’t think or even dare to dream about being in a high-profile show while I was trapped by the winery. I didn’t mentally prepare. I’m not like you, Nick.”
“If you want me to make him go away, I will.”
“And then you’ll wonder if I would have done it without you. I need to handle him, and I will. Actually, I just want this done and over with.” I twist out of his arms and charge through the bathroom into the bedroom, only to discover my phone ringing again.
Anger burns inside me for about ten different reasons: I’ve let Macom get into my head and inside my relationship with Nick. The man actually expects me to answer his calls when I haven’t spoken to him in over a year. And I could keep going with the list of reasons, but I’m at the bed holding the phone, and I hit answer. “What do you want, Macom?” I demand, turning to find Nick standing in the doorway between the bathroom and the bedroom.
“Faith,” Macom replies, his voice low, intimate, familiar, and I feel it like a punch in my belly.
I sit down on the mattress, my eyes on Nick. “Why are you calling, Macom?”
“I heard the good news about the show. Congratulations.”
“Why are you calling me, Macom?” I repeat.
“I want to see you. Come here. Our bed misses you.”
I laugh bitterly and cut my gaze from Nick’s. “Are you kidding me right now?”
“I messed up.”
“Let me be clear. We are not friends. We will never be friends. I don’t think we were ever friends. We will never be anything but a bad mistake. Don’t call me. Don’t even talk about me. Stay away from me at the show. And be professional. Leave Josh out of this.”
“I’ll come there and help you make your show selections,” he says as if I’ve said nothing. “I want you to do well.”
“I’ve moved on, Macom. I’m in a relationship.”
“Of course you are, but I’m up for the challenge.”
“There is no challenge. Do not come here.”
Suddenly Nick is on a knee in front of me, taking the phone. “This is Nick Rogers, Macom. I’m the challenge. Faith was done with you long before she left you, and you were too self-absorbed to see it. But if we need to talk this out, I have a private jet fueled and ready. I can fly you here, and we can sit and chat. You can tell me all about your art.”
Nick abruptly lowers the phone and tosses it on the bed. “He hung up.”
“You were supposed to let me handle this.”
“Yes, well, sweetheart, I’m a little more possessive than I realized.” His hands slide under his shirt on my bare thighs. “And if you’re angry—”
“I’m not angry,” I say, leaning forward and tangling my fingers in his loose hair, his protectiveness—possessiveness, even—hitting a nerve, and not a bad one. “I’m not,” I say, shoving away the memory now stirred and focusing on this man, the man that matters. “I need you too much, Nick. I need you to know that’s scaring me because I’m afraid you’ll see it as something it’s not.”
“Then we’ll be scared together, because I need you, Faith. So fucking much it hurts. Don’t make me feel that alone because you’re afraid of getting hurt. Because I’m just as afraid.”
I pull back to look at him. “You’re afraid.”
“Yes. And I don’t do fear. I don’t wear it well, remember?”
“God, Nick. You are—”
He kisses me, a deep, drugging kiss before he pulls back, those deep dark blue eyes meeting mine. “I am what?”
“Everything.”
“I like that answer,” he says softly. “And in the midst of everything, I am the man who very much wants to fall asleep with you in his arms and wake up the same way, ready to go kick the bank’s ass. Let’s make that happen.”
I nod. “Yes. I’d like that.”
“What’s your bedtime ritual?”
“Before I stopped painting, I would lay in bed and listen to music and think about what I might put on the canvas. What about you?”
“I go to bed.”
I laugh. “That’s pretty basic.”
“I keep what I can simple.” He kisses my forehead and stands up. “I’ll be right back.” He walks into the bathroom, and it hits me that I haven’t taken off my makeup, but right now, I just don’t care. I slip under the blankets and flip out my bedside light, inhaling the spicy, wonderful scent of Nick clinging to the blankets.
Nick reappears in the bathroom doorway, still shirtless, his hair tied back again, his jeans replaced with pajama bottoms. He flips out the bathroom light, and it’s not long before he’s in bed with me, propped against the headboard, his phone in his hand. “Music,” he says, and with a punch of his finger, the soft, soothing sound of Beethoven’s “Moonlight Sonata” fills the air.