Total pages in book: 73
Estimated words: 70444 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 352(@200wpm)___ 282(@250wpm)___ 235(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 70444 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 352(@200wpm)___ 282(@250wpm)___ 235(@300wpm)
As I stretch, I'm a little disappointed to see the spot next to me is empty, and the sheets are cool to the touch. It almost pains me to admit that I miss waking to the feeling of her ass rubbing against me—even if she did it to rile me up.
That was a part of our little game.
She knows my body will respond to her, even when I try like hell not to. Oakley's gorgeous and witty, smart and sassy, but she's too damn young.
And she's leaving in less than a week.
Which is why I pushed her away after being too vulnerable yesterday. Talking about my past is one thing, but discussing my relationship with Aspen and how it broke me is something I never should've mentioned to her. There’s no point in getting close.
Opening up to her is only opening my heart to break all over again.
I should've blown off some steam before I came home because I was still annoyed at myself. Seeing her on my bed, surrounded by my things, pissed me off. She fits in so damn well, even if she's constantly pushing my damn buttons. And yesterday she hit the nail on the head—I will miss her.
Not to mention, my family already loves her.
Hell, we're already acting like a couple in public, and by this weekend, the entire town will believe we’re together.
But that's all it can be—pretend.
Regardless, I should still apologize for how I acted. Oakley's here to do a job for my grandmother, and I'm making it harder for her. I love my family and don't want to let them down by upsetting their guest. If she were to quit, it’d be my fault.
Reluctantly, I pull on some sweats and a hoodie, grab my phone, then search for her. It's barely six, so I know she hasn't gone far. From what I've learned about her, Oakley isn't an early-morning person. But that could also be the time difference.
I notice her easel and painting supplies are gone when I get downstairs.
What the hell?
Did she take my truck and bail? Would she do that?
If I were stuck with some asshole, I’d have already left. Wouldn't even blame her for it.
Slipping on my shoes, I open the front door and am greeted by her silhouette on the front porch. Oakley stands with a brush in her hand in front of the easel holding a canvas, but it's not the one she’s been working on. It's something new.
With her back toward me, I drink her in as she paints the sunrise as it appears over the horizon.
“Oakley,” I say softly, not wanting to startle her. “You're up early.” Standing next to her, I admire how damn gorgeous she looks. Messy bedhead and all.
“The sunrise inspired me, and I wanted to take full advantage while I’m here,” she says without meeting my eyes. I watch as she meticulously blends the bright colors and wisps of clouds.
“It's stunning,” I tell her truthfully, staring at how effortlessly she makes it look. “You're really good.”
She snickers, and a pink hue covers her cheeks. “Thanks. Guess that means your family is getting their money's worth.”
“They wouldn't have sought you out if they weren't impressed by your portfolio. Considering you were at the top of your class, I shouldn't be surprised by how badly my grandma wanted to hire you.”
“Wow, guess you were listening.” She smirks, keeping her focus on the canvas.
“Kinda hard not to when you talk so much.”
That finally gets her attention, and she faces me. “You have something against making small talk?”
I shrug. “Depends.”
She rolls her eyes. “Typical answer for someone who deflects any time something serious comes up.”
“That's not true. I listen to everything you say,” I finally admit. “Even if it seems like I'm not.”
My heart hammers in my chest as I wait for her response. My body aches to touch her, to pull her close, and carry her back into my bed.
Only God knows why.
We're opposite in every way, so she shouldn’t always be on my goddamn mind.
“So what got you into painting in the first place,” I ask when the silence lingers too long.
“Growing up as a gifted child, I constantly needed stimulation for my brain. If I wasn't drawing, writing, reading, or doing something creative, I'd get into trouble. One day, I got a painting set, and it became my new obsession. It challenged me. I started with landscapes, which have always been my favorite. When I was in middle school, my art dominated college-level painting contests and won scholarships.”
“Wow, so you’re self-taught?” I ask.
“At first, it all came naturally. I taught myself the basics and practiced a lot. Painting helped calm my brain because I could hyper focus on something productive, which kept me out of trouble in school. Once my teachers learned I was painting, they let me do more creative extracurriculars. Instead of being labeled the weird smart kid, I was the weird artsy kid. I actually preferred that stereotype over the first one. It gave me more opportunities to make friends. Still, most couldn't relate to me. I didn’t meet people who were at my level until college.” She briefly pauses and gives me a cheeky grin. “Well, almost my level.”