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)
“How long will that take, do you think?”
“If I push them, I’d say we can be in the place in eight weeks.”
My cellphone rings, and I grab it from the table built into the floor in front of us, glancing at the caller ID. “Josh,” I greet.
“I got your email about your arrival,” he says. “I’ll pick you up at the airport. Five o’clock, right?”
“I don’t need a ride, but thank you.”
“I’m your agent. I’ll give you a ride.”
“I’m not your only client at the show.”
“If you mean Macom, he can drive himself. He lives here.”
I firm my tone. “Thank you, but I don’t need a ride.”
There is a heavy pause. “Nick’s with you.”
“Yes,” I say, my eyes meeting Nick’s. “Nick is with me.”
Nick’s lips curve in amusement, and he refills his glass.
Josh is silent for several beats before he replies with, “You need to make some time with me, without him, to meet the people I want you to meet tonight. And we’re having breakfast in the morning to talk about those meetings, without him. Don’t push back on this, Faith. I can’t get you the thirty thousand a painting I want to get you if you don’t let me agent.”
“I know that,” I say, wishing he’d been this eager to sell my work before Chris aided my career. “And I understand.”
“You better.” He hangs up.
Nick arches a brow.
I sigh and set my phone on the table. “How much did you hear?”
“Enough to know that he has his panties in a wad,” he says drily, “because my very existence guarantees he can’t get your panties in a wad.”
“Stop saying things like that. It’s all I will be able to think about when I am with him.”
“Good. You need to be aware of his intentions.”
My brow furrows. “You’re in a mood. Should we talk about Macom before we get there?”
“Haven’t we talked the shit out of Macom as it is?” he asks.
“Yes. And you made reference to—”
“Wanting to beat the shit out of him?” He doesn’t give me time to answer. “I do, but I’m really good at fantasizing. Like right now, I’m thinking about you naked, straddling me at about thirty thousand feet, but despite how fucking hard I am just thinking about that, I’ll most likely refrain from making it happen until the ride home. And likewise, I’ll most likely refrain with Macom.”
“Nick—”
“Faith. Are we doing this again?”
My cellphone buzzes with a text this time. I glance at it in my hand to find Bill has messaged me. I read it to Nick. “From Bill: Just making sure you got the picture and my message? He’s giving me an uneasy feeling tonight. Maybe I’m just nervous that my paintings will be mocked or the man I love will punch the man I never loved, but he is. What should I say?”
“Fuck you, you lying, cheating, lowdown bastard.” He downs his champagne. “Another fantasy. Stick to reality. Keep playing him, sweetheart. Soft and sweet. It’s your magic, and I love the fuck out it.”
I inhale and think a moment before I type: Yes, sorry. That topic is emotional, and I have my big show this weekend, which I’m nervous about. I show it to Nick.
“Magic,” he says. “He’ll eat that up.”
My phone buzzes with a new message I read to Nick again. “His reply: Yes, honey. Sorry. I didn’t even think about this upsetting you. Go. Make your mark. Make the Winter family proud, and I promise you, your father would have been proud.”
He’s hit a nerve, and my stomach knots with the very thought of my father’s thoughts on my art. But there is more. Something nagging in the back of my mind that I just can’t put a finger on.
“You played the player,” Nick says. “Now come play me.” He cups my neck and pulls my mouth near his mouth. “Forget Bill, Josh, and Macom. They’re making you nervous. Think of me. Think of us.” He kisses me, and he makes me forget, but the minute his lips part mine, that nagging feeling returns.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Faith
We arrive at the L.A. hotel where the art show is being hosted with just enough time to shower and change. The doorman leads us into the fancy suite, which is, of course, glamorous; my first view is of a large outdoor area framing a living area, with a connected dining room and a grand piano. Hallways lead to additional rooms, and to my left and right are fancy, winding stairwells.
The bellman delivers our bags to the master suite, which is apparently down the right hallway. The minute he disappears into the room, I turn to Nick and softly say, “This is not a hotel room. It’s the size of a house.”
“You never know when you might want to invite a few gallery owners over or whoever else might help your career,” he says, snagging my hips and walking me to him. “And I think you should consider doing just that before we leave.”