Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 72959 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 365(@200wpm)___ 292(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72959 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 365(@200wpm)___ 292(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
“I thought you said you were taking me home.”
His dazzling smile hits me square in the chest. “I am. This is my home.”
He unlocks the door, and it swings open to reveal a large entry hall. My breath catches when I see the painting that dominates the white wall directly in front of us.
“Dane…” His name is little more than a tremor on my lips.
He closes the door behind us and ushers me forward, guiding me down the hall until the painting fills my vision.
It’s the red abstract expressionist piece from the gallery at The Magnolia. The one we both admired on our first date.
His hard body looms behind me, and his hands frame my shoulders. “I couldn’t stop thinking about it,” he murmurs. “I couldn’t stop thinking about you.”
One hand lifts to my hair, and he twines my purple curl around his finger. “I’m not good with emotions,” he admits. “I think that must be why I’ve never really understood art. But you see the world in a way I’ve never contemplated before. You are remarkable, Abigail.”
“I thought you hated me for what I did.” My voice breaks, and the painting blurs behind a wash of fresh tears.
“You said this painting is passion,” he says. “But I can barely see the difference between the shades of red without you to describe them so eloquently. You said that’s rage.” He gestures at a crimson spray. “And that’s seduction.” His finger hovers over the purplish smudge. “But to me, they aren’t so different.”
“What are you saying?” I ask, my heart in my throat. I crave his forgiveness, but something like fear dances down my spine in a primal warning. It floods my core with forbidden heat.
“You lied to me when you faked your orgasm,” he says. “But I wasn’t being myself, either. I think it’s time for us to both be honest about what we want.”
“And what is it that you want?”
“You. All of you.”
20
ABBY
“You’re exhausted,” Dane says before I can formulate a reply, his voice deep with concern rather than judgment. “Let’s sit down, and I’ll treat your hand. We can talk more after.”
I practically float as he guides me into an ultramodern, minimalist living room. I’m no longer certain if I’m conscious or if I’ve slipped into some sweet dream where my charming prince is focused on me like I’m the most important person in the world.
He urges me to sit on the plush cream couch and orders me to stay before disappearing into the next room. I take a moment to stare at my surroundings, taking in his private space.
All of the furnishings are sleek and clearly expensive, but there’s something almost sterile about the pale color palette. It feels like a show home that someone has designed as a model of a house rather than a place someone actually lives in. Everything is too new, too perfectly polished and clean. Even the glass coffee table doesn’t have so much as an errant water mark marring the surface.
I remind myself that Dane only moved in a few months ago, and he’s admitted that he doesn’t have an eye for art. It’s likely that he hired some high-end interior designer to furnish this place, and he simply hasn’t lived here long enough to make the space his own.
He returns to me before I can puzzle over it further.
“Give me your hand.”
I comply without hesitation, even though my cheeks flush with soft heat. I’m still embarrassed that I was so careless at work.
“It’s really not bad,” I assure him. “It doesn’t hurt anymore. My skin just feels a little tight.”
He frowns at the angry red splotch over the back of my fingers, but his touch is achingly careful as he rubs a cool salve into the burn. I release a long, slow exhale. The relief from the lingering burn is almost euphoric; I hadn’t realized that I was still experiencing pain until he soothed it away.
When he’s satisfied that my injury has been treated, his green eyes meet mine, pinning me in place with that rapt focus that makes my stomach flip.
“I should’ve come for you sooner,” he says, as though it’s an admission of a grave sin against me. “But I needed to get the paperwork together first.”
My brow furrows. “Paperwork?”
He sits down beside me and reaches for a leather folder that I hadn’t noticed on the side table. His expression is blank, completely enigmatic as he hands it to me.
“I had my lawyer draw this up. I hope you’re not offended, but I have to be careful.”
I open the folder and glance over the official document.
“An NDA?” My gaze meets his again, and I still can’t read him. It’s like a wall has gone up between us, and I’m shivering in its cool, looming shadow. “What’s this about?” I press. “You can trust me, Dane.”