Total pages in book: 73
Estimated words: 67259 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 336(@200wpm)___ 269(@250wpm)___ 224(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 67259 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 336(@200wpm)___ 269(@250wpm)___ 224(@300wpm)
I was hoping, when we got into the car, that he'd kiss me again. I wanted that but instead he'd pulled my hand onto his thigh and covered it with his own while he talked about all the things he loved about Manhattan.
Gabriel Foster radiates confidence. He garners attention when he passes people on the street. I saw it for myself when we walked out of the building towards where Charles had parked the car. Several people turned just to look at him. He's handsome in a way that makes you wonder what it's like to kiss him, or touch him. I know now what both of those things feel like and as we sat in the car and I listened to him telling me about the brownstone he grew up in, I saw a flash of something vulnerable in his eyes. He turned quickly to look out at the slow moving traffic but it was there.
I see it again now as he turns towards where I'm standing near the bank of windows that overlook lower Manhattan. "I have something for you, Isla."
It's not what I imagined when he asked if I wanted to join him to cap off the night with a bottle of sparkling water. My lust filled mind thought he'd push me hard against the wall of the elevator, before he kissed me so deeply that my toes curled within the shoes I'm wearing. Then I pictured his hands falling to the hem of my dress before he pulled it over my head in one fluid swoop so he could ravish me.
The something he has for me clearly isn't rock hard and hidden beneath the cover of his expensive pants. It's in the envelope he picked up from a long counter after he poured us each a glass of water.
"What is it?" I ask cautiously.
He tucks the envelope under his arm as he scoops the two glasses of water in his palms. I watch in silence as he walks towards me. He'd slid his suit jacket off once we entered the apartment before he'd loosened his tie. It's only a slight adjustment but it changes him. His hair had caught the wind when we'd stood on the roof and even though he'd raked his hand through it in the elevator, it did nothing to tame it. He looks different now than every other time I've seen him. He's softer, less in control.
I take the glass of water when he offers it, downing half of it. He watches me carefully before he pulls the glass away from me and sets it next to his on a large steel coffee table.
"Open it." He pushes the envelope in my hand.
I stare down at it.
Ms. Lane.
That's all that's written on it. The ink is black; the handwriting masculine. It's obvious he wrote this and not the card that arrived with the elaborate floral bouquet that was delivered to the boutique this afternoon. As desperate as I was to shield the card from Cicely, she had caught sight of it over my shoulder. Her bitchy attitude for the remainder of my shift was evidence of that.
I look up and into his dark eyes before I drop my gaze back to the envelope. I flip it over in my hands, pulling my fingernail across the seal.
The card slides out easily. It's breathtaking. The artwork on the front as striking as anything you'd see displayed in a museum. The colors are vibrant and the design captivating. I scan it, my eyes resting on the unmistakable signature scrawled across the bottom corner.
"This is beautiful," I begin before I pull my gaze up to his face. "This is a Brighton Beck print, isn't it?"
His right brow cocks with the subtle movement of his head as he tilts it ever so slightly. "You're familiar with Brighton Beck's work?"
I run my fingers across my chin. "Yes. This is a print of Voyage. He painted this after the birth of his son. He donated it to a children's hospital in Paris, I think. They sell cards of the prints in the gift shop there to raise money for equipment."
He studies my face, his expression unreadable. I should tell him that I know all of this because my grandmother loved Brighton Beck with a passion that was only matched by her adoration for her music and her thirst for literature. When she bought one of his watercolor paintings at an auction, she'd been giddy. She had it hung over the worn leather chair in the library of her house. Each time I walked in there to talk to her, I'd catch her staring at it. I've followed his career since her death.
"Can I open the card?" I ask tentatively, wanting to break the silence.
"Please," he says as he motions towards my hands with his chin.