Total pages in book: 48
Estimated words: 46619 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 233(@200wpm)___ 186(@250wpm)___ 155(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 46619 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 233(@200wpm)___ 186(@250wpm)___ 155(@300wpm)
He’s a renowned artist whose artworks have sold for millions of dollars.
Obviously, he’d done that painting of himself in the downstairs living room, and it’s worth eight million dollars, but he refuses to sell.
I can’t believe that amount of money is just hanging on a wall, looking all pretty when it can actually be sitting in a bank account.
He obviously has a lot of money in his bank account if he doesn’t bother about a mere eight million dollars.
He’s a frigging billionaire.
I probably didn’t recognize him because I have zero interest in art or anything at all. I surely don’t have the time to pick out a hobby or extravagant leisure activities like others. I’m busy finding ways to survive.
I click on another article about him.
There’s a picture of him with a gorgeous brunette smiling boldly at the camera. She looks slim and elegant, a perfect fit against his huge structure. One arm is looped in Abram’s, and she’s waving at the camera with her free hand, a true diva.
My gaze slides to Abram, and my throat suddenly goes dry.
He’s looking directly at the camera, his mouth pulled up in that audacious yet detached smirk that looks incredibly sexy on him.
He looks dashing in a navy blue suit that’s tailored to perfection.
He’s the kind of man that would look especially handsome in anything, even sackcloth.
His rich black hair is styled differently than it looks right now, with some steel strands at his temples, but equally gorgeous so that my fingers itch to glide through the rich curls. His eyes seem to bore into mine – those very eyes that held me as a prisoner earlier today.
I think back to the instant my eyes met his enigmatic turquoise eyes. I thought it was a dream.
Who knew that the object of my fantasies would be staring me in the face just when I woke up from a dream about him?
Be mine...
The words slip into my mind, his sexy deep voice resonating painfully in my head.
He said those words with such conviction that my heart stopped beating for a second.
I shake my head, wishing the thoughts away.
The picture I’m looking at now was taken at an award dinner, his third in a row. The article goes on about Abram’s great accomplishments and his beautiful date.
I wonder if the woman is his girlfriend. She’s perfect for the role.
Just the thought left a bitter taste in my mouth.
But why should I care if she’s his girlfriend or not? I barely know the man.
And reading about him now makes it clearer that we’re worlds apart.
Why does such a prolific artist want me as his muse, though?
Maybe this is some kind of punishment for sleeping in his bed.
Something doesn’t feel right about the whole thing. Or maybe it’s the way he kept looking at me like he’d eat me whole.
Even now, thinking about how his eyes had roamed my body slowly and boldly makes me feel hot all over.
Men don’t look at fat girls like me in that way.
I can’t seem to figure out his real intentions.
I sigh softly and lean against the kitchen island.
I glance at my watch and realize I’ve been intentionally stalling. This is my last house for the day, and I’ve scrubbed the kitchen counter more than twice.
I’m torn between taking Abram’s offer or…. I shake my head vehemently.
I can’t go back to my apartment.
Who knows what Jack would do next?
I can’t afford to immediately get a new place as I recently just paid my rent.
I feel my stomach curl up in anger at the thought of Jack.
That bastard, I should march right into the police station and file a report, except the case would be ignored just like every other petty crime case from neighborhoods like mine.
I sigh for the thousandth time in the same minute.
Abram proposed two weeks... That should be enough to gather some money for a month’s rent in another shabby neighborhood somewhere far away from Jack.
Besides, I did promise to do anything to make up for my unprofessional act.
All I need to do is sit still for a few hours while he paints.
How hard can it be?
CHAPTER EIGHT
Abram
“Hello?”
June’s voice sounds husky, like she was roused from sleep by my call. I think it serves her right for sending me all the way down here.
On second thought, I guess I should thank her for it.
Thanks to June’s tricky move, I found Melody.
“Were you sleeping?” I ask mildly, feigning cluelessness.
June scoffs incredulously. “It’s three AM in Barcelona. Of course, I was sleeping.”
I hear rustling sounds on the other end of the phone. I can imagine her rolling her eyes as she tries to settle in a comfortable position.
I smile at the disgruntled image.
“Sorry,” I say in an unapologetic tone. “It’s just nine PM here.”
“You’re very well aware of the time difference,” June says with a deep sigh. “Is this some sort of payback?”