Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 81170 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 406(@200wpm)___ 325(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81170 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 406(@200wpm)___ 325(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
I was so awestruck when Roman took me here that I didn’t think to jot down an address or even a street, but I remember the scaffolding outside the warehouse-like structure and the flower market on the corner, the one sandwiched between a Verizon store and a sushi bar.
Counting the windows, I focus on the row that lines up with the seventh floor—Halcyon’s loft.
The shades are all pulled down, but the lights are on.
My heart hammers, and my breath quickens.
The outline of a dark, masculine figure moves behind the window.
Transfixed, I watch a little longer, letting my mind trek down curious alleys and avenues. What if Halcyon was never Roman’s wife? What if Halcyon was Roman the whole time? It would make sense . . . he has unrestricted access to the studio and knows the names of all the paintings. Not to mention he gave me three of them without so much as asking for permission.
Oh my god.
It was so obvious.
It was right in front of me the entire time.
How could I not see it?
I was so focused on the fact that his wife’s death coincided with Halcyon’s abrupt departure from the art world that I wasn’t thinking clearly.
Settling in on the park bench, I wait.
. . . and wait.
. . . and wait some more.
I wait until the sun goes down, turning the city into a neon nightscape.
I’m not sure how many hours have passed before the light inside the loft finally goes black. Rubbing my strained eyes, I blink and squint and refocus my attention on the building’s entrance. Halcyon—whether it’s Roman or someone else entirely—should be walking out any minute now.
The door swings open, and my stomach flips.
But it isn’t him. It’s an older woman with white-blonde dreads and so much beaded jewelry she jangles with each step.
A second later, the door opens again, only this time it’s a couple of guys with long, shaggy hair. One has a skateboard. The other lights a cigarette. Both of them are far too thin to match the silhouette I saw in the window tonight. They say their goodbyes and head off in opposite directions.
I take my gaze off them for a moment, just to check the time on my phone. I’ve got a dozen missed calls and text messages—all of which are from Margaux. The messages are composed mostly of question marks and demands for me to call her.
I ignore them all.
“What are you doing here?” A familiar voice pulls me out of my daze and sends a start to my heart. Glancing up, I find Roman’s imposing physique standing before me.
“It’s not what it looks like,” I say, before realizing it’s absolutely what it looks like. Maybe I didn’t come here on purpose, but I 100 percent stayed, watched, and waited like some crazy person. “I was in the area.”
He clucks his tongue, glancing away.
“I walked around the city all afternoon . . . and when I realized where I was, I sat down to take a break . . . and then I saw the lights were on in your loft,” I attempt to explain, but his expressions imply he’s not buying any of it.
If I were him, I wouldn’t either.
My word is shit.
“You’re Halcyon.” I change the subject. His steely gaze holds firm on mine. “You were him the whole time.”
I don’t suppose he ever owed me the truth. And he never technically lied. But in a way, I wasn’t the only one keeping secrets.
“If you’re trying to compare what you did with what I did, save your breath,” he says.
Lifting my hand over my heart, I shake my head. “They’re not even close. I would never. I just . . . there’s a lot we don’t know about each other.”
He rolls his eyes. “To put it mildly.”
“What all did Margaux tell you?” I ask, softening my question with a wince.
The space above his jawline divots. “I’m not having this conversation right now.”
His attention scans past my shoulder, toward the street. I follow his gaze, expecting to find Antonio rolling up in his shiny onyx Escalade. Only it’s a brunette in a Chevy Malibu. She gives him a wave. He gives her a nod. My stomach sinks. While he was never mine—and never supposed to be mine—my sister was right . . . he can order up another girl anytime he likes. Men like him don’t stay heartbroken for long—or by choice.
“I’m sorry,” I tell him as he walks to her car. “I know my words mean nothing right now, but please know that I’m sorry. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner. I’m sorry you found out the way you did. I’m sorry I agreed to help my sister. I wish I could take it all back. I wish we could’ve met like normal people meet.”