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)
“But the bank won’t let that happen,” Faith says.
“They will,” I assure her. “I’m taking care of this.” Her eyes meet mine, shadows and worry in their depths, and I repeat, “I’m taking care of this.”
She gives a tiny nod. “And I’m going to leave you two to your attorney talk.” She tugs on her shirt to whisper, “I’m going to go change.”
I nod this time, watching her depart before I take Frank off speaker phone. “Tell me the players in this game.”
He begins a detailed rundown of who is involved with what and what’s happened, which on his part is a pathetic example of legal work. He has no fire left in him, and Faith needs fire on her side right now. Fifteen minutes later, Frank and I end the call just before Faith appears in the doorway, now wearing paint-spattered jeans and a T-shirt. “Well?”
“He’s not done enough. I will. We’ll talk through a plan before I leave.”
She studies me several long beats. “Thank you, Nick.”
“Tiger on this, sweetheart. That’s a promise.”
“Tiger,” she says. “There’s a coffee pot in the corner. And a mini fridge with random creamers, which shouldn’t be expired because they last a scary long time when you think about it.”
“Thanks, sweetheart,” I say. “You’re going to paint?”
“I am.”
“Will I get to see the results?”
She gives me a coy smile. “Maybe.” She slips away, and I glance down at the paperwork in front of me, craving time I don’t have to review it in more detail.
I grab my briefcase from the ground beside me and pull out my MacBook and review what North has sent me. That’s when Mozart fills the air, a sign that Faith remembers I work to classical music. And what’s crazy is that no other woman has ever known that about me. I’ve only just met Faith, and I’ve let her see parts of me no one else has. I stand and walk to the door to find her standing at the easel, my painting no longer on the ground. It’s in front of her, pleading for her brush, and I wonder if she’s still looking for the lies that I’ve sworn I despise but can’t stop telling her.
Chapter Eighteen
Faith
Nick and I spend the rest of Saturday afternoon and into the evening inside my studio, him in my office, me sitting in front of a once-blank canvas with a brush in hand. And I do what I love—what I have denied myself for far too long.
I paint, and I do so without hesitation.
I paint without what I now believe to be the fear of the past few months. Fear of failure. Fear of disappointment. Fear of seeing myself through my brush when I do not like who and what the past few months have made me.
I paint Nick.
His strong face.
His piercing eyes.
His tattoos. The tiger. The words: An eye for an eye.
And I do all of this while trying to understand a man who seems to understand me perhaps too well. I also do so quite entertained by the way he paces my office, throws paper balls at a trash can, talks to himself, and then repeats. His creative process. And what I like about seeing this is that the hard work shows me what’s beneath the arrogance.
Amazingly, too, at random times, I look up from my canvas to find him standing at the office door, his broad shoulder resting against the doorway, a force that consumes the room while he intently watches me work, and I do not withdraw. I’m okay with him being here. I’m okay with him observing my creative process when I have never allowed anyone to watch me work, including Macom. But then, Macom was always critical of every creative choice I made, and Nick…is not.
But then, Nick and I are new to each other, and time changes people. I’ve often wondered when my father became my mother’s man-child rather than her husband. Was it instant? Was it at one month? One year? Ten years? Every question leads me back to the paint on my brush and the man in my office. That’s the great thing about a one-night hard limit: it never has time to go sour. The person can never see too much or know too much. And yet, any minute now, Nick and I will be at two.
Unless I send him away.
As if he senses where my thoughts are, I feel him, rather than see him, step back into the doorway of my office. And after hours of this push and pull of wordless energy between us, I don’t have to look at him to know that one of his broad shoulders rests on the doorway. Or that those piercing blue eyes of his are on me, not the sun fading and washing the green from the mountainsides, soon to disappear and leave them black. But this time, I do not allow him to watch me work.