Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 103102 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 516(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 344(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103102 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 516(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 344(@300wpm)
“Then you know.” She slams the shaker on the bar with a soft thud, then strains the drinks into two martini glasses. “Here. On the house. Consider it a consolation prize.” She looks to me. “Good luck, princess. Lord knows you’ll need it.”
River doesn’t object or press her. He nods a goodbye, takes one glass, and motions for me to take another.
I move away from her glare, find a booth on the left, and sit down.
There’s something strange about the space. It’s cozy—we’re close together—but it’s exposed, too. Everyone here can see us. Anyone can watch us.
“Do you really drink cosmos?” I ask. “Or is that to mess with me?”
“Could be one. Or the other. Or both.” He brings the drink to his lips. His eyes flutter closed as he takes a sip. He holds it, enjoys it, swallows, sighs like he’s tasting heaven.
Or maybe like he’s imagining the taste of Lexi’s lips.
“That might be laced with arsenic,” I say.
“It might.” He takes another sip.
Well, I’m not about to let the dorky boy next door out-drink me. I bring the glass to my lips and take a tiny taste. The cocktail is good. Great, actually. The perfect mix of tart and sweet, with only the faint taste of alcohol. “The blue-eyed blonde… That was Grace Kelly?”
“Am I supposed to blush?”
“Lauren Bacall maybe?” I offer.
He doesn’t take the bait.
Of course it was Lexi. Who else would it be?
“How long have you been drawing her?” I ask.
“What does it matter to you?”
“She’s my sister,” I say.
He doesn’t reply. He takes a long sip. He swallows hard. He sighs.
I copy the gesture, but I don’t have the patience to hold a staring contest. And, really, there’s something about his dark eyes. They’re intense. The eyes of a tortured artist.
Plus, the dark hair, the strong shoulders, the tattoo peeking out from the V-neck collar of his T-shirt.
As if he’s reading my semi-dirty thoughts, he slides off his leather jacket and drapes it on the bench next to him.
Tattoos. A full sleeve on his left arm. The right arm bare. Why is that so sexy? Something about the commitment. Or the asymmetry. As if he’s too beautiful to need symmetry.
“Why were you drawing Lexi?” I ask.
“What do you mean?”
“With Alice. You were dating someone else, but you were still drawing Lexi. Isn’t that as good as cheating?”
“Cheating is an action.”
“Oh, so it’s only cheating if you touch someone else?”
“Yes,” he says.
“Really?”
“Really.” He nods.
“It’s just…that’s such a stereotypical male take.”
His laugh diffuses 5 percent of the tension in the air. “That’s what surprises you?”
“Maybe it shouldn’t. Maybe your grandma has the same take.”
“I know what you’re doing,” he says.
I take a long sip. Let the mix of cranberry, citrus, and vodka dissolve my inhibitions. I don’t want to crush the poor guy, but maybe that’s what I need to do. “What am I doing?”
“Trying to distract me.”
“From?”
He sighs. “Lexi isn’t coming, is she?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Don’t play dumb, Deanna. You’re too smart to pull it off.”
My chest flares with the strangest mix of flattery and indignation.
“You don’t approve of me,” he says, “so you’re trying to keep me away from her.”
What? “Why wouldn’t I approve of you?”
He hesitates, like he’s unsure if he should admit to something. Then he says, “Because I’m not in the same class.”
“Oh, please,” I scoff. “Your house is worth three million dollars.”
“My grandma’s house,” he clarifies. “And she bought it for less.”
Fair point.
“What’s the guy do?”
I blink at him, confused by the topic change. “What guy?”
“The one Lexi met in the app.”
“How do you know about that?”
“Again, Grandma,” he says. “She knows everything.”
Right. “He’s an employment lawyer.”
“Not an artist.”
“Get over yourself.” I wave him off. “Lots of people are artists. Rich people, especially. It’s a rich kid job.”
He sits back, his expression hurt.
Ha. Got him.
Except I don’t feel good about the dig. I feel like an asshole, actually.
“It’s not because you’re not good enough for her,” I say. “It’s not about you at all, really. It’s about her.” And didn’t we already have this conversation ten years ago? Has he forgotten? He was supposed to forget Lexi, not forget what I said to him about her.
“Flattering.”
I raise a brow. “Is that sarcasm?”
“I’d think you’d recognize it,” he says with a smirk. “I’m trying to speak your language.”
This is getting too personal. “Why did you draw Lexi?” I ask again.
He stares at me, hard. “Why do you care?”
“I told you why. Just answer the question.”
He sits back and blows out a breath, his eyes going distant for a moment, then says, “It was a project for AP Studio Art. We had to pick a subject we didn’t understand. Break it into lines, shapes, colors. To view it through different lenses.”
“So you’d understand?”
He nods.
“So you, what, you break her into cubes, all Picasso like, and you suddenly get it?”