Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 98305 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 492(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 328(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98305 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 492(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 328(@300wpm)
He gives me a teasing smile over his shoulder, and I can’t help but laugh.
“To be honest, it’s not my forte. I do appreciate other people’s talent though.”
“Well that’s only fair. You can’t be good at everything.”
He hums and finally spins around slowly to look at me instead of my art. For a brief moment, his gaze falls across my silk pajamas, and my body floods with warmth. Nerve endings stir and tingle, and maybe I’m just drunk or maybe we’re both feeling the same thing.
I’m so aware of my own heartbeat I can hear it drumming in my ears as his eyes rise to mine.
“Do you have any sketches of your work with A Banquet Still Life?”
I look to the black portfolio in the corner, and the hum of desire deadens like it’s been cleaved with an axe blade the moment I’m reminded of my afternoon at Hauser & Wirth.
I look away, busying myself with my bed, tossing pillows aside so I can pull back the blankets.
“Yes, they’re around here somewhere.”
“Can I see them?”
“I’m too drunk to find them right now.”
Besides, it’s all just coffee shop art.
My eyes tingle with unshed tears.
God, I had too much champagne.
I need to just go to sleep.
I turn quickly and disappear into the bathroom, grab my toothbrush, and apply much too much toothpaste. I don’t care. I brush my teeth with angry swirls.
Walt doesn’t follow me into the bathroom, and that’s for the best.
I look at myself in the mirror after I’m done brushing my teeth and washing my face. My dark lashes barely conceal the fact that my eyes are rimmed in red.
For the first time in weeks, I feel stripped of all my defenses. The reality of what I’ve gotten myself into comes back to me like a great rush of wind, nearly knocking me off my feet.
I’m married to the man in the other room.
A man who was, at the time, a great mystery shrouded in suits and severe expressions and curt conversations, but now the distance between the man I assumed Walt was and the man he’s turning out to be is starting to widen with every moment we spend together.
Worse, I’m starting to think I might actually like my husband.
How…disconcerting.
I do think this arrangement would have worked best if we’d kept up pretense and only interacted with one another when it had to do with the business arrangement we struck in that courtroom. But then he agreed to let me move in, and now we’re (read: I’m) liable to catch feelings. Feelings are messy. My feelings are messy. Walt seems perfectly capable of reining in his feelings so at any given moment they’re nothing more than a pesky fly he can flick away with a wave of his hand.
After I spread some lotion on my palms, I rub it in as I walk back into my bedroom. Walt is still there, sitting on the edge of my bed, looking at my sketches.
“Are you still worried I won’t make it to bed safely?” I ask, slightly amused.
Surely, I’ve proved to him I’m at least capable of that. Even if it’s done a little clumsily.
“No. I think I’m just too tired to move. It feels good to sit here.”
I nod in understanding as I move around my bed and sit down beside him. The mattress dips slightly under my weight, and I glance down. My eyes immediately catch the contrasts between us. My silky shorts are hiked up, revealing a bit too much of my thighs. My skin looks pale and soft. Feminine. His legs are still clothed in his dark suit pants. Soft versus hard. Gentle versus severe. I could paint a portrait of our legs on top of the white comforter and present it as a study between feminine and masculine forms.
Walt’s looking down at us too, and I feel it again: unnamed emotions that seem too close to desire. Too close to something I haven’t felt in…
Walt stands up abruptly.
“Good night, Elizabeth,” he says, sounding almost stern.
“Oh.” I shake my head, trying to keep up with the sudden change of energy. “Good night.”
He doesn’t look back once he steps out the door. I listen to his feet carry him away, trying to compartmentalize my sadness.
The next morning, I sit up in bed, shove off my blankets, and listen for Walt. It’s Saturday. He should be working here, in his office. I bet if I walk out into the hall, I’ll hear him on the phone. Or maybe he’ll be in the kitchen, grabbing ingredients for his smoothie again.
I’m starving since I slightly overslept. I want eggs and toast and bacon. I could make enough for the two of us and invite him out of his office to sit and eat with me. Surely, he’d be able to take a fifteen-minute break. Five minutes, even.