Total pages in book: 47
Estimated words: 46847 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 234(@200wpm)___ 187(@250wpm)___ 156(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 46847 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 234(@200wpm)___ 187(@250wpm)___ 156(@300wpm)
“Sure,” I whisper, knowing this is the end.
I have to kill this part of me now.
The part that wants her needs her and hungers for her.
But the problem is, it’s not just one part.
It’s all of me, every single piece.
It was never going to work. I need to live in the real world.
“Okay. I’ll email you the locations I’ve scouted so far and my notes.”
“Sounds good,” she says. “I’ll get back to it.”
“All right.”
She turns and leaves.
There’s so much else I want to say as I watch her go, but I couldn’t, even if it wouldn’t break Lola’s heart when she found out. Speech is impossible as I gaze at her full gorgeous ass in the black skirt, the fabric clinging onto her tightly, as if begging for my hands.
Once she’s left the office, I sit back in my chair, gripping the edge of the desk and trying to calm myself down.
I want her so badly it hurts.
Her body, heart, soul, life, and future. I want all of it, all of her.
But there’s the proof if I needed it, the motivation to end this here. She’s going to be searching for other women for me to photograph, almost naked.
She wouldn’t have offered if there was any desire there.
But she obviously doesn’t feel the same.
How could she?
I knew I wanted to have her, forever, the moment she walked out of Lola’s spare room. I knew I wanted to flood her innocent young body with my seed and put those perfect childbearing hips to use.
Kiss her, hold her, love her.
How can I expect her to want that too?
Shaking my head, I tell myself I’m being foolish.
Nobody will ever know how I feel.
Maybe one day, I’ll be able to let her go.
I clench my fists even harder, my knuckles turning white. I’m sure I hear the wood of the table whine under the strain.
That’s a lie. It could never happen.
I’ll never be able to let Faye go.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Faye
I sit at the desk, trying to focus on the second batch of photos, but all I can think about is what I stupidly said in Felix’s office.
I look to see if he’s watching me, but he’s no longer standing at the window.
He was before, and I kept looking down, pretending I didn’t notice. There was something so captivating about him standing there, his casual shirt open three buttons from the top, showing his firm chest, his clean-shaven jaw making him look younger than his thirty-nine years.
And then, mostly because I freaking panicked and wanted to help, I offered to do the unthinkable.
Find models for him to photograph.
The thought makes it difficult to focus on the task in front of me. My mind keeps flitting to the future, when I’ll recede into the background, watching with pain rioting through me as he snaps photos of women way prettier than me.
That’s not just bull crap, low self-esteem talking.
It’s a fact.
Anybody I find on a freaking model page is going to be prettier than me.
So what, right? He doesn’t want me anyway.
Why does it matter?
It doesn’t.
That’s what I try to tell myself as I sort through the photos, but I can’t shake the feeling that he’ll be betraying me.
That’s craziness. I know that.
But it doesn’t make the feeling go away.
Is he going to take photos of other women before me?
Well, yeah, he is.
I’m nobody to him. A maybe-employee if I play this right. His daughter’s friend.
Nothing else.
He’d laugh – more in confusion than meanness. I bet – if he knew about all the thoughts rushing through me.
If he knew about my crush, maybe the laugh would turn a little mean, or belittling, even if he didn’t mean it to.
“Oh, right,” I imagine him saying, a smirk playing on his lips. “That’s nice of you, Faye, but I’m not really into dorks half my age.”
I swallow bitterly, as though these words aren’t mind-made, as though he actually said them.
A photo trembles in my hand as I carefully place it in the no folder. We could’ve done this digitally, but I remember Lola saying he much prefers working with physical copies when he can.
At least he has copies. These aren’t the final prints.
I’m sweating, leaving fingerprints, but I can’t help it.
It’s not the office, converted from a warehouse, with a sea breeze kissing the back of my neck.
It’s thinking about what will happen with the models when I’m watching.
Enough, I tell myself.
But it’s never going to be enough. There’s too much desire, and it’s way too readily available.
It’s like any second I try to push it down, it rises up even fiercer, more determined than ever to make me do the unthinkable.
Go to Felix and tell him I can’t do this. I can’t arrange for him to photograph another woman.
It would eat me up too much inside and make me think nasty thoughts about how much I hate the models even if it’s clearly not their fault.