Total pages in book: 23
Estimated words: 22390 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 112(@200wpm)___ 90(@250wpm)___ 75(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 22390 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 112(@200wpm)___ 90(@250wpm)___ 75(@300wpm)
I go back to my landscape, dabbing a bit of my nice, new, expensive paint on my amazing brush…
Just as I’m about to go to work on the ridge of a mountain, a clap behind me nearly causes me to jump out of my pants. I whirl around, and who do I find standing in the doorway?
“Hey, bitch.” Trish grins at me, clearly pleased with herself for scaring me.
“Where have you been?” I bark angrily, rushing over to her for a hug. “And how did you know where to find me?”
“Sorry, I was caught up with a date.” She winks and puts on her Wicked Witch of the West voice. “And I have my ways of finding you, missy! Don’t think you’ll ever be able to get away from me.”
I leap back as she waves an imaginary wand at me, pick up my brush, and wave it back at her. After a short witch’s duel, we both slump down on some stools at one of the tables.
“So,” she says, looking around. “A bit of a step up from your old place, huh?”
“Honestly, it doesn’t even feel real. Orson keeps saying this is our house, but it hasn’t sunk in yet.”
She stands and walks around the studio, examining all my new supplies and unfinished paintings.
“You sure are milking him for all he’s worth.”
“Don’t you say that!” I snap, rising to my feet. “I am not with Orson for his money.”
She raises a catty eyebrow. “Oh, you’re not? Because those look like four hundred dollar sweatpants you’re wearing right now.”
I glance down and frown, then look back at her. “Look, do I mind the gifts? Of course not. But that’s not why I’m with him.”
Trish makes a sound like she doesn’t believe me. I bite the inside of my cheek and narrow my eyes at her.
“Trish. I’m with him because for the first time ever, I’ve felt that spark. That feeling I’ve been waiting for. He gave that to me.”
She looks back at me, and for a moment, I expect a sassy retort. But she must see the look in my eyes because she slowly nods.
“Okay. But I can take credit for setting you two up, right?”
I burst out laughing. “Yes. But let’s not tell the exact story of how at the wedding, okay?”
“Definitely not.” She walks over to the painting I’m working on and examines it. “So you’re going to have a gallery show.”
Instantly, I’m sweating. “Please, don’t remind me.”
“Why? Aren’t you excited?”
My hands are clammy. I wipe them on one of my rags. “More like mortified. I’m still trying to tell myself my work is good enough. You’ll be there, right?”
Trish smiles and shrugs. “So long as I’m not out with my own billionaire boyfriend!” Her phone buzzes. She checks it and sighs. “Speaking of which, I have to go.”
“But you just got here!” I protest. It’s only been a few days, but I feel like I haven’t seen Trish for ages.
“Sorry. But some of us still gotta make that bank.”
“I’ll walk you out.” On the way downstairs, I realize I haven’t seen my king all morning. “By the way, did you see Orson when you came in?”
Trish shakes her head. “Nope. Why? Is he missing?”
I laugh. “Let’s hope not.”
Walking Trish out actually sort of helps me feel like this is my house. Before, I’ve been the one being led in and out. Now I’m doing that job myself.
My stomach warms. I’m getting used to the place. My place.
We reach the front door, and I stop dead in my tracks. There, lounging on one of the benches, is Chuck.
God, what is he doing here?
“Hey there, Megs.” He grins. “How you doing today?”
Trish glances at me like any good friend would do, basically asking if she wants me to stay. But I shake my head and give her a hug.
“It’s okay. You can go,” I whisper.
“Call me if you need me to beat him up,” she whispers.
I laugh, and she goes out to her car, leaving me alone with Chuck. He’s wearing lime-green pants today with a tucked-in pink plaid shirt and a bow tie. And I’m pretty sure he’s wearing Jordans too. Not sure what look he’s going for, but it is not working.
“Orson!” I call out, walking down the hall to his office. Chuck follows me without invitation. “Orson, are you here?”
“He’s not. I checked.”
“Orson!” I repeat, ignoring him. I reach for my phone but realize I left it upstairs in the studio. I turn to Chuck. “I’ll have him call you—”
“Actually, I didn’t come to see Orson. I came to see you.”
My fingers start tingling with that odd sensation you get when you’re feeling uncomfortable. Why would he be here to see me?
Everything Orson has told me about Chuck, combined with the way he acted toward me at the restaurant, makes me not too happy about being around him.