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)
“Why do I feel like there is more?”
He rolls us to our sides, facing each other, his leg twined with mine. “There is more. More fucking. More loving. More us.”
“Because you think you—”
He strokes hair from my face. “I know I love you, Faith.”
“You do?”
“I do.”
“I love you, too.”
“Then there’s more. There’s always more. But whatever it is, good or bad, we do it together. Say it.”
“We do it together.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Nick
More.
That word stays with me as I make love to Faith, and even afterward as we dress in casual wear—Faith in jeans and a V-neck blue T-shirt that shows off her necklace, which she keeps touching. I like that she keeps touching it, as if she’s remembering me giving it to her. As if she connects me to her art, and since she loves her art so damn much, I’ll say “paint me, baby” any damn day.
I dress in black jeans, boots, and a black T-shirt that reads: Lawyer—Let’s just save time and assume that I’m right, which gains me the laugh from Faith I’d been looking for. Because her laugh is sexy as fuck and damn addictive. Like the woman herself.
“You are not always right, Nick Rogers,” she proclaims when she sees it, stroking my cheek. “But don’t worry. I’ll catch you when you fall.”
“Don’t I owe you a spanking?”
“It really is starting to seem like you’re all talk and no action,” she replies, twisting away from me and giving me a sexy glance over her shoulder. “Come, my hungry man. I have the world’s most perfect burger for you.”
My man.
She’s learning.
I am her man.
I follow, but not for the burger. For the shake of her curvy and perfect ass in those jeans, and somehow my mind still works enough to ask, “Do you have the instructions for shipping your paintings? We need to arrange to have someone pick them up.”
She pauses at the door and faces me. “I looked it up when I submitted my final paperwork. They have special arrangements with FedEx, and there’s a location right up the road.”
“Then we’ll go after lunch,” I say, stepping beside her, and because I just can’t help myself, which is pretty damn unfamiliar to me, I give her a quick kiss and open the door.
“Food is literally three minutes away,” she says once we’re in the car and pulling onto the main road. “Just turn right, drive a mile, and we’re there.”
“Got it,” I say. “Food. One mile.” I glance over at her. “Dessert when we return home, and it’s not ice cream.”
“Oh. We need more ice cream. I have to have ice cream when I’m here. It’s kind of like Sonoma survival. A survival kit that is cream, sugar, and calories.”
“Why do you need a survival kit?”
“You’re about to find out,” she assures me but doesn’t give me time to press for details. “So,” she continues, “we eat. Then we need to go by FedEx and the grocery store.”
“And to get boxes so you can pack some of your things to ship to San Francisco. We can arrange to have FedEx pick them up tomorrow with your paintings. Then it can all be waiting on you when we return Sunday night.” I pull us into the restaurant parking lot and park.
“That’s expensive, Nick.” I open my mouth to object, and she holds up a hand. “Don’t tell me not to worry about money. You didn’t get rich by throwing away money. Don’t expect me to start throwing it away for you.”
“And I appreciate that, sweetheart, but the sooner you’re with me in San Francisco, the happier a man I’ll be.”
“I said yes for a reason. I’m already with you, Nick.”
I lean over and kiss her. “Keep saying yes. I like that answer.” She smiles, and I like that, too. I’m so fucking in love with this woman, it’s insanity, and I am happily insane. I have no fears. No regrets. No second thoughts. I want her. I need her. She’s mine. “I’ll come around and help you out,” I tell her.
“Because you have such good manners,” she teases, a reminder of our little bathroom encounter on the first night we fucked, when I promised to make her come about a half-dozen ways, but only when I thought she was ready.
“You know it, sweetheart,” I say, exiting the car, and the moment I’m outside, a sense of being watched hits me, right along with a blast of cool wind. And yes, logically, it’s Beck’s people. It had better be Beck’s people, but I don’t like how it feels. I round the car and help Faith out, wrapping my arm around her shoulder and holding her close. Making it clear she’s mine. She’s under my protection.
We enter the restaurant, and that feeling doesn’t fade, even as the rush of attention falls on us as people who know Faith greet her. By the time we are at a table, it becomes apparent that pretty much everyone in this city knows her and her mother. Her dead mother, who is connected to my dead father. And that sensation of being watched is magnified with that realization.