Total pages in book: 105
Estimated words: 98755 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 494(@200wpm)___ 395(@250wpm)___ 329(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98755 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 494(@200wpm)___ 395(@250wpm)___ 329(@300wpm)
He smirks and drags a stool over to the station where I’m working. It feels strange having him sit next to me, but I’m not entirely against it. In fact, I lean into it a little as I turn my classical music on to play quietly in the background. I usually have it blasting, but this time, I keep it lower so I can focus more on his breathing.
“Is this where you do your glass sculptures as well?” he asks inquisitively.
I smirk, not yet admitting to it openly. I actually work on those in a completely different studio. Somewhere small and quaint that no one knows I bought about a year ago.
He grins as he grabs my coffee and takes a sip. I go to reprimand him for it, then stop myself. I suppose it’s no different to when he steals the remains of my pancakes and drinks my coffee at the café.
“How’s your skin?” he asks.
“See for yourself,” I tell him while my hands are preoccupied with a clump of wet clay. He unclips my overalls and lifts my shirt, revealing my breasts. His fingertips brush against the skin, tracing one of the yellowing bruises. His crystal-blue eyes darken as he stares longingly at the marks he left.
“I liked it,” I remind him, quite enjoying his touch. I try to focus on the sculpture in front of me.
“Tell me all about your favorite parts of that night,” he whispers into my ear, and it elicits goose bumps along my arms. A steady pulse begins at my core.
“Behave while I’m working,” I growl.
He chuckles as he clips my overalls back up and then leans back, watching me. “You must have liked it. You came if I remember correctly,” he says.
“It must’ve been a figment of your imagination. Surely, you’re not that good,” I sass back.
He laughs, and it relieves all the tension that’s settled in my shoulders over the last few days. How can one man make me feel so at ease when he’s one of the main reasons I’m in a fluster in the first place?
I lick my lips as I think about when I left his apartment: his mother and the things she said. Perhaps I should be sorry for scaring her like that, but I’m not. I glance in his direction, and he rolls his eyes.
“Ask your question, Shortcake.”
It’s unnerving how well he knows me after such a short amount of time. Then again, I suppose he’s been watching me for months. Someone as clever as Braxton is literally paid to be observant.
“Did you help your mother?”
“No. And I don’t intend to.” Silence stretches between us and then he expels a long breath. “I’ve never had a good relationship with her. So I cut her off.”
“Oh,” is all I can manage to say because the fact that he’s telling me this means something, doesn’t it?
“No Dad?” I inquire. From the file Ivy curated for me, I noted there’s no father named on his birth certificate, but I want to hear it from him. I’m even more curious to see if he lies about it.
“Nope. Lone wolf. I have a sister somewhere, but she disowned me the same as my mother. They only come crawling to me when they need something.”
I think about how sad that is. I couldn’t imagine not having the supportive and functional family I have despite its shortcomings. I’ve always known love, felt provided for and cherished. I wonder if Braxton has ever felt loved or if it’s something he can’t accept. Maybe I really am in over my head to think he could accept me and what I have to offer him.
What do I have to offer him?
“Does it… hurt?” I ask, unsure of how much I can pry.
“No. I came to terms with that a long time ago. Besides, I’m not looking at the past anymore,” he answers, and when I meet his gaze, he’s staring at me. I can’t help but wonder if there’s more he’s not saying. “You know I’m here for a reason, right, Shortcake?”
The sculpture wavers between my fingers, and I quickly correct my hands as I stop working on it. “And why are you here?” I ask carefully, my heart racing as his gaze dips to my lips. I can hear my heart thumping in my ears.
A knock sounds on my door, disrupting both of us. I stand quickly as if I’ve been caught doing something wrong, a spike of adrenaline fueling me for an entirely different reason now.
Hardly anyone comes here, especially during the day. So I’m confused that someone has access to my studio. I’m surprised when the door opens, and I see my father, whose gaze immediately narrows on Braxton.
“Dad?!” I squeak. A muscle in Braxton’s jaw jumps as he holds the same strangled gaze with my father. That’s a big fucking mistake.