Total pages in book: 113
Estimated words: 104820 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 524(@200wpm)___ 419(@250wpm)___ 349(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 104820 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 524(@200wpm)___ 419(@250wpm)___ 349(@300wpm)
But Arch didn’t wait. He followed her upstairs. “Tessa. Please. Talk to me.”
“I can’t,” she told him again. “Not yet.”
And even as he stood in her doorway, she pulled out her paints and easel and taped up a blank piece of paper. And like a waterfall, all of her emotions poured out onto it. It was like a huge crying fit made of blue, black, purple, and a thick, furious red. There was no subject, no focus. She wasn’t normally an abstract painter, but she didn’t care. She just let the feelings flow through her arm, through her brush.
She had no idea how much time passed before she finally ran out of steam. She might actually have collapsed right then and there if Arch hadn’t come up behind her to hold her up. To be her strength when she had none. To be her calm when all she’d known in her marriage was fury. To be the embodiment of love when love had never truly been hers before now. Before coming to Carmel-by-the-Sea.
Before Arch.
“I don’t know much about art, but I know pain when I see it,” he said as he gently turned her in his arms to face him. “Your painting pretty much expresses how I feel right now too. I love you so damned much, Tessa. Please tell me what happened to make you feel this way.”
There was no point in lying. She told him what she’d overheard at the store.
“And don’t say it was only two strangers whose opinions don’t matter. It’s what everyone will say. And it’s true. You could be with anyone. You’re grateful because I helped you heal. One day, you’ll realize that’s what you’re feeling. Gratitude, not love.”
Though she could tell that her words had angered him, he didn’t pull away. If anything, he drew her closer. “Don’t tell me what I feel,” he said. “I know my own damn feelings. Am I grateful to you for taking care of me? Of course I am. Just like I’m grateful to the woman who cleans my house, or the woman who does my taxes. I’m grateful to the women who pretend to love me on-screen, because they’re good actresses, but I don’t love any of them. I don’t think of them when I wake up. I don’t want to hold them in my arms when I drift to sleep. I don’t want to have children with them. I don’t want to choose a damn dog with them. I want those things with you. Only you, Tessa. Only you.”
When she would have tried to protest, he held up a hand so she found herself listening carefully, to hear the truth.
“Once and for all, I’m telling you that Sonia Montefiore and I were never an item. You are the woman I’ve waited for my whole life. Ask my family, if you don’t believe me. Even though we tried to keep it a secret, they all know I’m hopelessly in love with you.”
“But I don’t belong on a red carpet.”
“If it will make you feel more comfortable, then I will make a promise to you now that you never have to go to another of those things with me again.”
She waved her hands in frustration. “It’s not the red carpet. It’s what it means. It’s everything.”
A voice boomed out from below. “How’s my wingman today? Valentina and I are heading out tomorrow. Came over to say good-bye.”
Like most of Arch’s friends and family, Smith Sullivan hadn’t bothered to knock.
Arch said, “I’ll tell him to go. We are not finished here.”
“No. Have a visit with your friend. I need to think. Please, Arch. I need some time.”
And though it was clearly the very last thing he wanted in the world, he took her at her word and gave her space and time.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Tessa waited until she could hear Arch and Smith talking downstairs. Maybe it was rude, but she couldn’t see Smith Sullivan right now when her head and heart were such a mess. She was glad he hadn’t brought Valentina with him, or she’d have felt even worse about sneaking out of the house.
She didn’t even take her painting things with her. Her mind was a tangled web of love and fear, and her nerves were frayed. But she needed the beach, the smell of the water, the feel of the sand between her toes. Even some happy dogs who might lift the heaviness in her chest.
She ran quietly down the stairs and let herself out the front door. Then, taking a deep breath, she walked toward the beach. She didn’t head for her usual painting spot, just walked straight out of Arch’s home until she found herself on the sand.
There were no surfers out. The swell wasn’t high enough. There were no swimmers either. The water was too cold. But there were a few dog walkers in the distance and a couple jogging along the sand. A small boy, and possibly his grandfather, flew a kite, a green one shaped like a dragon’s head.