Total pages in book: 111
Estimated words: 105708 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 529(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105708 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 529(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
“No,” he confirms, taking it from me to give it a quick inspection. “Where did you find it?”
“My front yard as I was leaving for the airport. It must have been the delivery person who brought the package you sent me.”
“Right,” Nick says, the look on his face oddly serious, but he says little more. “A delivery person makes sense.” He pockets the money clip. “I’ll have my assistant call the delivery service. Do you have your paperwork?”
I grab the documents on the counter and hold them up. “All set.”
“Well, then,” he says, “let’s go have that talk.” He backs out of the doorway, giving me space to exit. The idea that we’re going to sit down and have a formal chat is a positive signal to me that he plans to take my concerns seriously.
Once I exit to the hallway, Nick steps to my side, and side by side, we start down the stairs, my curiosity piqued. “I just realized that I don’t know much about your work life. I haven’t even thought about you having an assistant, which, of course, you do. And where is your office? How many staff members do you have?”
“Downtown. Twenty staff members. And my assistant is Rita, who is a mother and has been happily married for decades. She also tolerates my arrogance about as well as you do.”
I cast him a sideways look and a smile. “So I’ll like her.”
“Without question,” he says as we reach the living room, “and I’m fucked ten ways to hell if you two team up on me. That said, I’m brave. Once you know your schedule at the gallery, you should come to my office, meet her, and see the place.”
“I’d like that,” I say, stopping on this side of the island bar as Nick rounds it and steps directly across from me.
“How long do you plan to work with Sara?” he asks.
“She said this is just for this week, but I’d love to help her get to opening day.”
“That’s weeks away,” he points out. “And you have a show to prepare for. How much work do you have left to complete?”
“Two paintings,” I say, pleased that he’s aware of my deadline. “But one is half done, and the gallery will inspire me. I should paint today, though. I’d actually really like to get a brush in my hand.”
“I’m glad to see you embracing your work again. After we talk, just go hide upstairs and do what you need to do. We’ll hang out here and order in dinner later this evening.” He lifts the lid to a pizza box. “For now, we have this. Abel actually left us a few slices.” He walks to the oven behind him and turns it on.
“You’re hungry?” I ask incredulously. “How can you be hungry? We just ate not that long ago.”
“Almost two hours ago,” he says, glancing at his industrial-looking watch with a thick black leather band and silver face that fits well with his black jeans and biker-style boots. “That’s a long time with all that fighting and fucking we just did.”
I laugh, shaking my head, the laughter part something I’m not sure I did all that often before I met Nick. “The things that come out of your mouth, Nick Rogers.”
“You get special treatment,” he says, grabbing a pan from the drawer under the stove and setting it on top. “You should hear what I say to those I don’t like. Because I’m not a nice guy, remember?”
“All too well,” I assure him, joining him on that side of the bar and helping him load the tray with pizza. “I can just imagine what your courtroom must be like,” I say, lowering my voice to imitate him. “Tell me, Mr. Murphy. Right before her death, were you fighting with her or fucking her?”
“First,” he says, grabbing the other two pizza boxes. “My voice is much deeper than that. Second, I usually make those kinds of statements long before we ever get to court, and then we don’t go to court.”
“How often are you in court?” I ask, setting an empty pizza box on the counter beside me.
“A lot of my work is done for contracted, long-term clients, which means I negotiate and litigate on their behalf as needed. But overall, only about ten percent of my time is spent in court, while another thirty percent is spent in mediations.” He sticks the pizza in the oven and sets the timer, his mood turning serious. “Let’s sit and have that talk so you can get to painting. And to bed. You now have work tomorrow.”
It’s then that realization hits me. He starts to move, and I grab his arm. He turns back to me, arching a brow, so very tall, broad, and bigger than life in too many ways to count. Bigger in my life than anyone else has ever been. “What’s up, sweetheart?”