Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 83912 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 420(@200wpm)___ 336(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83912 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 420(@200wpm)___ 336(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
“And you won the case?”
“Yes. I won.”
I rotate to my side to face him. “Can you tell me about it?”
He glances over at me. “You want to hear about the actual case?”
“I want to hear about how you won it under those circumstances, yes.”
“Why?”
Because I need to hear about someone else overcoming another person’s crimes and winning, I think. But I say, “Because you intrigue me,” and it’s true. He does.
He laughs at my play on his earlier words, the passing lights illuminating his handsome face. “Aren’t you the witty one, Ms. Winter?”
“Actually, not many people call me witty.”
“You sure about that? Because that comeback in the bathroom where you called me insecure was pretty witty.”
“That was snarky.”
“So, you’re known for your snark?”
“No,” I say, “but I am known for excellent pancakes and an incredible knack for sprucing up a box of Kraft macaroni and cheese like nobody’s business.”
“You’re known for your paint brush,” he amends.
“I’m almost known,” I correct before I can stop myself, but I’ve said it, so I just wade on into it. “Which is like almost winning a case to you, I suspect.”
“You downplay your achievement,” he says. “Chris Merit wanted you in his show. That’s pretty damn powerful in the art world.”
“Our families share a connection,” I say. “Apparently more so than I realized.” I change the subject that I wish I hadn’t broached. “Tell me about winning that case.”
“I’d rather hear about you. Tell me about your art.”
“You teased me with part of a story,” I press. “I really want to hear about how you won the case.”
His phone rings, and he hands it to me. “Tell me who’s calling so I don’t drive us into a cliff.”
Stunned by something that feels rather private, I nevertheless take the phone and glance at the caller ID. “It says North. Why don’t you use Bluetooth?”
He grabs an earpiece from the visor and attaches it to his ear. “Hackers love Bluetooth, and I deal with confidential information for powerful people. And I need to take that call, sweetheart. It’s my associate working on the depositions with me.”
“Of course,” I say, the endearment doing funny things to my belly all over again.
“Punch the button for me, will you, before he hangs up?” he says, battling his headset.
“Yes,” I say, turning down the radio for him, “but take the next right and it’s going to be about five miles before we turn again.”
“Got it,” he says, and I hit the button to answer the call, then face forward, sinking into my seat. I feel as if I’m intruding on his world now, when really, I haven’t even searched him on the internet or otherwise, as he has me. It’s a thought that does not sit well. I really don’t want him in my world—just in my bed. I don’t want anyone in this hell with me right now. I inhale and shut my eyes, listening to him speak, and I don’t remember ever being so attracted to a man’s voice. But there is something about his deep, masculine voice that is almost musical, and judging from the warm heaviness in my body, it’s a song that plays all the right notes for me.
“No,” Nick says to the person he’s labeled as “North” in his phone. “Don’t ask him that. He’ll walk right around the topic, and you’ll alert him to what comes next.” He pauses to listen. “No. Explain your reasoning, and you’re going to need a miracle to get me to agree to this.”
As his conversation continues, I’m struck by how certain Nick is about everything he says and does, wondering how long it’s been since that was me. And it was. There was a time when I was young and thought I could rule the world with a paintbrush, back when I was as confident as he is today. When I’d thought big dreams and hard work would get me to the level of success Nick is at now. But I wasn’t Nick. I wasn’t hard enough. Life chipped away at me, and right now, that makes me feel more of that anger I’ve been feeling. Only I realize it’s not really my mother’s fault at all. She did what she did, but she didn’t make my choices for me. I did. I chose how I let me handle me.
“And I’m off,” Nick announces.
“And all is well?” I ask.
“All is well when I finish a deposition with a settlement.” His brow lifts, and he surprises me by turning the radio back up and testing my musical knowledge. “Do you know this one?”
“‘Dawn’ from Also sprach Zarathustra, Richard Strauss. Did you know that this is the opening to the movie 2001: A Space Odyssey?”
“Did you know that Elvis used it for his entrance to concerts?”
“I did,” I say. “Mostly because I had an art teacher who not only thought painting to classical music gave the work depth, but she was also insanely in love with Elvis. Painting to Elvis gave the work sexiness.”