Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 71911 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 360(@200wpm)___ 288(@250wpm)___ 240(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 71911 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 360(@200wpm)___ 288(@250wpm)___ 240(@300wpm)
We ate in silence.
“So, when do you have a second breakfast?”
“This is second breakfast.” He ate with his arms on the table. “I have a shake while I work out.”
“That’s not breakfast.” I took a bite of my buttery pancakes and wished I could eat like this every day. We could afford help if we wanted to, but it was something neither of us cared for. But now that I’d had it, I had a different opinion about it.
“It has calories. And I have to eat four thousand calories a day.”
“What?” I almost dropped my fork.
He continued to eat like that number wasn’t crazy. “That’s what I need to maintain my size.”
“I wish I could eat four thousand calories a day.”
“It sounds better than it is. I have to eat two breakfasts and two lunches.”
“Oh, poor you.”
He smirked before he took a bite.
I loved his seriousness, but those little smiles were something else. “These pancakes are fire.”
“My chef is from Paris.”
“Must be nice to have someone cook for you.”
“I don’t have the time,” he said. “Do you cook?”
“Yes, most of the time.”
“What do you make?”
Talking about the dinners I made for Bolton should make me feel like shit, but I felt nothing. “I made braised chicken and artichokes the other day. Mostly casseroles and one-pot dishes so I have less to clean.”
“Between work and cooking, when do you find time to paint?”
I gave a shrug. “I haven’t painted in a while.”
“That’s what you should be focusing on.”
I looked down at my pancakes. “My paintings aren’t very good.”
“How will they get better if you don’t keep painting?”
“Theo, you’re sweet—”
“I’m not being sweet. If you want to be a painter, then paint. It’s that simple.”
“Making art is more complicated.”
“Nothing is complicated if you have discipline.”
I set my fork down and looked at him. “I think you’re being a little pushy.”
“You need a push, sweetheart. You said it’s your passion in life. So, either do it…or accept that it’s not your passion.” His elbows were on the table, and he looked at me as he held his fork in his grasp. “Except the second option isn’t really an option.”
I looked down at my plate again, my crêpe half-eaten. I didn’t usually eat breakfast, and I forgot how scrumptious it could be.
He let it go. “Are you free tonight?”
My gaze returned to his. “I haven’t even left, and you want to see me again?” I didn’t know where this relationship with Theo would lead, but I did wonder if he would drop me after we fucked. After he got what he wanted, he might lose interest and turn his attention elsewhere.
He took a drink of his coffee. “Is that a yes?”
Bolton wouldn’t be home until tomorrow afternoon. “Yes, I’m free.”
“Then come by after work.”
I’d expected to spend my night alone, but I had another night with this man, another evening with his warmth and affection. That filled me with a jolt of excitement that I didn’t anticipate feeling. He fucked me good and left me satisfied, but it only made me want more. “Alright.”
I usually enjoyed being at work, but now, it felt like a drag. One of my regular clients came in to see the new shipment of artwork we received, and normally, I was excited for these kinds of days, but all I could think about was the man who had asked me to sleep over another night. Nothing else seemed to matter.
The hours dragged by, and finally, five o’clock arrived.
I texted him when I got to the car. You still want me to come over?
His attitude was in full force. Did I say otherwise?
Okay. I’m on my way.
Good.
I drove to his villa then parked in the parking garage, in the same spot I’d left that morning. I took the elevator and entered his dark and brooding villa, the place that was always quiet, like a beast lurked on the top floor and never left.
I didn’t see George, so I made my way upstairs, assuming that was where Theo was. I entered his primary suite and found that it’d been tidied while I was out for the day. All the surfaces were shiny, like they’d been dusted. His bed was made, and the pillows were fluffed.
But there was no Theo.
I entered the room with his bed and stopped when I spotted the new addition to the furniture. An easel with a blank canvas was sitting there. Paints and brushes were placed on a table beside the stool. It was on top of a black rug, something to capture the spilled paint and protect the hardwood floor underneath. The curtains were open, showing the fading light as the winter sun set.
On the table was a note written in a man’s handwriting. Sit your ass down and get to it. I’ll see you at dinner. I read the note multiple times, absorbing his handwriting and the words he’d written by hand, hearing his powerful voice in my head.