Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 82698 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 413(@200wpm)___ 331(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82698 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 413(@200wpm)___ 331(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
She couldn’t help saying to Dylan, “When I was your age and just starting out, I wish I’d had a studio space like this for my art.” Instead of the dirty garret she’d lived in with way too many artists.
Clay’s voice came from right behind her. “You’re an artist?”
Damn. She hadn’t heard him move up on her. Turning to him, her voice breezy, she said, “I used to be, but I wasn’t any good. I still do some of my own stuff.” She shrugged to add emphasis. “But I’m a better assistant than I am an artist.”
But Clay had latched on. “I’d love to see your work.”
She stepped back, waving him off. “Oh, it’s bad. Really. I’m a much better assistant.”
How could she have slipped up like that? It could literally ruin her life. Had she forgotten her experience with Hugo? While she’d just decided that Clay was actually a good guy, she absolutely could not tell him. Mentally, she zipped her lips. Don’t do that again.
Even if she was becoming totally enamored with Dylan. And with Clay.
Dylan finally saved her. Grabbing her arm, almost dragging her out of the studio as he said, “Oh my gawd,” with such exaggeration. “There are so many amazing artists here. I have to introduce you to everyone.”
She heard more glowing accounts of Clay in all the different voices.
“You know what? Honestly, I was living on the street.”
“I was doing the art, and Clay came and said, ‘I got a place for you to stay and a studio to work in.’”
“I was super suspicious at first, but he’s the real deal.”
Her head was spinning by the time Dylan had taken her the full length of the warehouse.
And she was ninety-nine percent sure Clay was the real deal.
Clay was almost jealous that he didn’t have Saskia to himself. Yet he loved watching Dylan’s hero worship just because the woman actually worked for San Holo.
It was, however, time to get down to business. “Maybe we should go to my office now to talk about the commission. I’m eager to hear what you think San Holo will say.”
With a smile in her eyes, she said without embarrassment, “Sure. But first, can I use that restroom I saw back there?” It wasn’t a question, since she was already heading down the aisle.
The moment she was gone, like any seventeen-year-old, Dylan spoke without thinking. “Man, she’s hot. And she knows San Holo.” He put a hand to his chest as if he’d entered a state of bliss. “I think I’m in looove.”
Dylan looked at him, one eyebrow raised as if he had some sort of sixth sense and could feel the connection between Clay and Saskia.
Clay found himself oddly defensive, barely keeping himself from snarking, She’s mine, punk. Of course he didn’t say it. That would be a dick move to a kid who was enamored.
Besides, Saskia wasn’t his.
At least not yet.
When Saskia returned, she pointed at Dylan. “You—” She gave him a sparkling look. “—need to get back to work on your masterpiece.” She held up a palm. “Get ready to put it out there. The art world will go crazy for it.”
Blushing to the roots of his hair, Dylan slapped his palm against Saskia’s in a high five. Then he grabbed his paintbrush.
As they turned toward the stairs leading to his apartment on the second floor, Clay had to say, “You’re really good with Dylan. I’ve been encouraging him. So has Gideon Jones.”
Before he could explain who Gideon was, she said, “Dylan told me all about Gideon’s foundation. You’ve both done wonders for him.”
“But hearing praise from you, someone he doesn’t know well, really builds his confidence. I believe he’ll put his work out there now.”
Her smile radiated down on him. Before he lost total control and kissed her in full view of everyone, he flourished a hand for her to climb the stairs ahead of him.
When she walked through the door he opened for her, she gasped. “This is your office?”
“My office and my living quarters.” He closed the metal door, cutting off the hubbub from below, the thick walls giving him privacy while allowing the artists to work at all hours without worrying they’d disturb him.
She gaped at the space he’d created for himself. Skylights took advantage of the afternoon sun, sparkling on the polished concrete floor that wasn’t covered by area rugs. He’d designed an open plan, one grouping of sofa and chairs centered around his massive flat-screen TV, another around a fire pit he’d installed with an exhaust above for the smoke. Off to the right, a full kitchen contained all the amenities, as well as a breakfast bar and a dining table that seated twelve when extended. The only places partitioned off were his bedroom and the two bathrooms, one for him, one for guests. His workspace, desk, cabinets, files, and computers were all open to the rest of the flat. Two large monitors on the desk allowed him to track his investments, do research, and conduct business.