Total pages in book: 140
Estimated words: 138003 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 690(@200wpm)___ 552(@250wpm)___ 460(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 138003 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 690(@200wpm)___ 552(@250wpm)___ 460(@300wpm)
“There’s always a bloody catch,” she mutters.
We make our way out of the office and into the gallery. At the door, I hold it open for her when Pete slips in from the street.
“All right, Mr.—” His greeting abruptly halts. No doubt something to do with my glare.
“Mr.… I don’t know you,” he unhelpfully tacks on, his eyebrows disappearing into this sparse hairline.
Fucking idiot.
“Mr. Hartman,” Lavender says, drawing his attention as she offers Pete her hand. “I wasn’t expecting you, was I?”
“I was just passing,” Peter says in an officious-sounding voice that definitely isn’t his own. Was it thirty grand he owed last time? I wonder what he’s in for now. Nothing that the account has flagged yet, but I make a note to ask, just in case.
“I was just on my way out to a meeting. Will you be okay with Primrose looking after you?”
“Yes, of course.”
“I’m sure I’ll be here next time.”
We exchange a glance, Pete and I. We both know there will be a next time.
“So you know Mr. Hartman?” Lavender doesn’t quite ask as I close the gallery door behind me.
“No, I don’t think so. Maybe it’s more a case of he’s familiar with me.”
“Familiar with your work?” she asks in a certain tone.
“That might be it.”
“So you’re not sending people to buy art from me.”
“No.” I look up from my phone. “I’m just sending Antonio Primrose’s order.”
“Right,” she replies unconvinced.
I take her hand, and we turn left as we make our way to a nearby café.
“I don’t have long to spare.”
“You’re the boss. You can take as long as you want.” I begin to swing her hand, making her smile. Lately, the weather has been unseasonably Mediterranean in London. I enjoy the feel of it on my face and the play of it through the sycamore leaves on Lavender’s.
“I know, that’s why I need to get back. I want to go through the numbers and compare them against this quarter’s projections. The figures should blow his socks off. Not that the whole quarter has been great. Just since we got married. Funny that, right?”
“Not really. I did promise to introduce you to people with more money than sense. People who want help cultivating their tastes.”
“Hmm.” Her eyes narrow. “I think you might’ve had a hand in things to a greater extent.”
“Nope. Probably just word of mouth,” I add with a shrug. “You’re not worried about seeing him, are you?”
“Not nearly as much as I was,” she says, shooting me a quick grin. “Good news is always easier to deliver.”
“You must mean our marriage.”
“Of course! What else?” Her laughter sounds so free and so fucking good to hear.
We turn into the café and are surrounded by brick walls, industrial-looking bare light bulbs, and a wall of plants.
“You know what I mean,” she says, bumping her shoulder against mine.
“Shall we sit outside?” A row of tiny bistro tables and spindly chairs crowd half of the narrow pavement.
“Yeah,” she answers. “Let’s make hay while the sun shines. Literally.”
We take a table nearest the door, and the server appears almost immediately.
“Hi, guys!” She flicks her blond braid over her shoulder, placing a menu down in front of each of us. “I’m Lena, your server today. Would you like to hear the specials?”
“Sure,” I say.
At the same time, Lavender says, “No, thanks.”
The woman’s lashes flutter, her hand briefly touching my shoulder. “Looks like this one is all for you, big boy.”
“Oh, that’s nice,” Lavender answers, piqued. I bite the corner of my mouth, my eyes not once moving from Lavender’s narrowed gaze as Lena relays the café’s offerings. This is a first. Jealousy. It looks good on her. Feels good on me.
“I thought she was going to sit on your lap,” she mutters as Lena moves on, giving us a few minutes to examine the menu.
“She’s just being friendly.”
“Yes. Friendly.” My wife’s brows lower to a shelf. “Her boobs were certainly very friendly.”
“Were they?”
She huffs, her lips puckering unhappily. “It’s not like you could miss melons like that. I remember you have a thing for pigtails.”
“That sounds like an accusation.” And I sound amused.
“In Gibraltar. You said I’d look good in pigtails.”
“On our wedding day, your hair was braided. I watched you as you took it down. You didn’t see me, but I saw you with pigtails for less than a minute. It was long enough to tell you looked good. You could be bald and wearing a wheat sack, and I’d still be into you,” I admit in a low rumble. “Your melons are the only ones I’m interested in. And just to be sure, I’m talking about your tits.”
“A bit louder, please?” she murmurs as her cheeks turn pink. “The man at the counter inside didn’t quite hear.”
“Your tits.” My voice drops as I reach across the table for her hand. “Your tits are like peaches.”