Total pages in book: 37
Estimated words: 33979 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 170(@200wpm)___ 136(@250wpm)___ 113(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 33979 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 170(@200wpm)___ 136(@250wpm)___ 113(@300wpm)
“I’m only doing commission pieces right now. My creative side has dried up. What they call writer’s block is me currently. Before you showed up on my doorstep, I’d been thinking about taking a vacation. Probably stressed from working two jobs, the steel mill and getting this to a point where I could quit the first. It meant busting my ass, and now that I’m at a comfortable place, will be even more so if I take that offer, I’m bone tired.” The admission feels good to voice out loud. I’ve yet to tell Jett my full struggles, and while she could keep my social media presence up and orders tolling in, the thought of working in any capacity doesn’t excite me like it used to.
“I’m sorry, truly. I can’t imagine to begin to know how that would feel. I wouldn’t even try to understand.” Indy gives me nothing but compassion. “If the contract isn’t something you’re comfortable with, I promise to pull back. Miranda might be pissed, but she’ll get over it,” she offers.
“Nah, Miranda is the least of my concerns. That being said, talked to Jett while you were in the shower. I’ll do the art show. I’d like to have freedom when it comes to creativity and maybe book it out in six to eight weeks. I’ll take a week or so off, see if that helps. Pretty sure it will, but there’s a catch.” Her smile widens, her eyes deepen, and she does a shimmy in her seat.
“Okay, now that I can breathe a sigh of relief at not going home empty handed, what’s your stipulation?”
“I want you.” I don’t elaborate. Instead, I let her sit and think about my words. When Indy gives me an answer, I’ll sign on the dotted line. In the meantime, our second drinks arrive, as well as our dinner. We settle in, make small talk, and I let Indy keep her thoughts to herself on my counter offer. One thing is for sure: if she’s not included, then Miranda won’t get what she wants.
9
Indy
I’ve been chewing and stewing, that’s the only way to describe the words Toren threw in my lap at dinner. I didn’t let it deter me from my meal. The food was too good and the company was hot. We finished our dinner, talking about everything except his art and my job. Toren even offered dessert, but I was so full after the appetizer, our dinner, and the three lemon drops I consumed. My stomach is at max capacity for space, even with the loose dress I’m wearing.
“Thank you for dinner.” I look up at Toren. He’s beside me, the palm of his hand on my lower back, suspiciously where there isn’t any fabric. Not that it’d help in the least. Toren touching me in any sense of the way seems to light a fire to my senses.
“You’re welcome, cherry.” He doesn’t poke or prod about the deal he suggested, and I know it’s up to me to ask questions, which is what I’m going to do as soon as we’re out of the thick of being surrounded by others.
The night air presses close, warm and heavy, like a secret wrapping around you as we walk along the red brick sidewalk. It still holds some of the heat from the day, radiating upward and through the thin soles of my shoes. Overhead, there are strands of soft golden lights stretched between lamp posts, swaying slightly in the humid breeze, casting a gentle glow and making everything feel softer, slower—seemingly suspended in time.
“About the contingency you placed back at the restaurant. What all does it entail?” The cicadas hum in the distance, a steady rhythm beneath the hush of the evening. Toren’s fingers slide beneath my dress, the tips blazing a trail and stirring a hunger deep inside me.
“Want you with me while I create the work. Any business dealings, it’ll be you I talk to. Not Miranda. Think you can feel we got something between us. The last thing I want is for you to get on a plane and leave. Also know you have work of your own. Haven’t figured out logistics, only know if you’re not part of the plan, Miranda is up shit creek without a paddle.”
We stop walking, time stands still, and I’m having a hard time keeping up.
“Are you crazy?” There’s a word for this kind of thing: coercion, black mailing, or leveraging, but all of those sound crazy. Too strong of a word, especially when I’m thinking about giving in without hearing another word Toren has to say.
“I have been called that a time or two.” He cages me in. How he moved us until my back is pressed against the side of a building, I have no idea. He is close, so close that I can feel the warmth of his breath and see the way his restraint is starting to unravel. Every small movement is amplified. The shift of his thumb dips lower, and my chin tilts up as the air thickens with anticipation.