Total pages in book: 151
Estimated words: 145746 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 729(@200wpm)___ 583(@250wpm)___ 486(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 145746 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 729(@200wpm)___ 583(@250wpm)___ 486(@300wpm)
You never forget your first love. Isn't that what they say? Verity Hill knows this truth intimately. She didn't simply miss Wright "Monk" Bellamy when they parted ways in college. She's haunted by his touch. Every kiss, any lover since—it's a shadow of what they had.
Time heals all wounds. Isn't that what they say? Monk doesn't believe that for a second. He wasn't simply betrayed when he and Verity split. He was devastated, with parts of him left behind in the ruins of all that was destroyed.
More than a decade after their disastrous breakup, Verity and Monk must work together on the set of an epic Harlem Renaissance biopic. With Monk, now a world-class musician, creating the score, and Verity, an award-winning screenwriter, penning the script, there's Oscar buzz before shooting even begins. This once-in-a-lifetime project could catapult them both to new heights, but can they can put the past behind them for the sake of the film…for the sake of something more?
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
PRELUDE
Verity
“Art is our weapon. Culture is a form of resistance.”
—Shirin Neshat, “Art in Exile” TED Talk (2010)
Present Day
Opportunity doesn’t always knock. Sometimes it invites you to lunch on a sunny afternoon.
I scan the tables in the rooftop restaurant, pushing past my nerves and searching for the man I’m supposed to meet. Open Air sits atop one of LA’s most luxurious boutique hotels, The V. It’s always a who’s who crowd, with everyone that’s supposed to be someone doing deals and eating meals up here. This high there’s a cool breeze even in the spring, so I pull the light cardigan a little closer around my shoulders and scour the diners one more time in case I’ve missed him.
“Looking for someone?”
Living in LA for nearly the last decade, I should be used to gorgeous women. This one, though, with her long-lashed brown eyes, thick curtain of dark hair hanging to her waist, and miles of smooth tanned skin on display in a minidress that barely hits mid-thigh, is still so breathtaking I find myself stammering.
“Um, y-yeah. I’m meeting someone. We should have a reservation.” I drag my eyes away from her to search the rooftop dining area again. “But I don’t see him yet.”
She steps behind the podium and touches the tablet screen, her thick brows furrowing. “Which name would the reservation be under?”
“Holt. Canon Holt.”
Just saying the famous director’s name triggers a full-body flush of anxiety. He’s one of the most critically and commercially successful Black filmmakers of the past decade, and when my agent told me he requested a meeting, I nearly expired on the spot. I’m still trying to shake off the who me? energy and find the bad bitch bravado needed to conduct myself like the confident professional I’m supposed to be.
“Oh, Canon!” She looks up with a beatific smile so dazzling I almost say, Canon who? and ask for her number on the spot. “He’s already here. They’re in one of our private pods.”
She gestures to the discreet, striped-curtained enclosures lining the azure swimming pool at the rooftop’s center and starts walking.
“They?” I follow her, distracted by the swish of long hair and the jiggle of her ass.
Damn.
God took His time with this one.
Time well spent, Sir. Time well spent.
“My brother’s with him.” She glances over her shoulder, flashing me a knowing grin when my eyes have to bounce up to meet hers.
“Your brother?” I ask, trying to recover some of my dignity.
“Well, my stepbrother. Evan Bancroft. This is my place, and they come here all the time.”
“Open Air is your restaurant?”
“Yeah, my father owns the V hotels, but the restaurant is mine to play with.”
“It’s gorgeous,” I say, skirting the tables draped in white and set with fresh flowers.
The closer we get to the tent with one flap pulled back at the far end of the pool, the more anxious I become. This is a huge meeting, and I hope I can keep my shit together long enough to impress Canon Holt.
“Gentlemen,” she says when we reach the tent. “I believe you’re expecting…”
She turns to me with brows lifted. “I didn’t even ask. What’s your name?”
“Verity Hill.” I ping a glance between the two men, who stand from the table to greet me.
“Nice to meet you, Verity,” she says. “I’m Arietta.”
“Thanks for your help.” I give her a grateful smile, then turn to accept the hand Canon Holt extends. “So nice to meet you, Mr. Holt.”
“Please call me Canon. Thanks for taking time to chat.” He nods to the other guy. “I hope you don’t mind my producing partner, Evan Bancroft, sitting in.”
“Of course not,” I say, shaking Evan’s hand, too. “Nice meeting you.”
Side by side, the two men cut an impressive picture. Canon—brown-skinned, broad-chested, and just over six feet tall—wears a sports jacket with a white T-shirt and dark jeans. He has a reputation for being austere and hard to read, and his impassive expression seems to confirm it. Matching Canon in height and breadth, Evan looks like the quintessential Southern California boy, his bronze- and gold-streaked hair falling in those waves only achieved with an expensive haircut. He has a charming smile that says he’s trying to be one of the guys, but he can’t disguise the aura of wealth and privilege he wears as easily as his black V-neck sweater and flawlessly tailored slacks.
“You guys haven’t ordered anything yet?” Arietta asks once the three of us are seated.
“We thought we’d wait for our guest,” Evan replies. “Have you eaten here before, Verity?”
“No.” I pick up one of the glossy menus and open it, overwhelmed by the number of options. “Wow. This menu feels like a test I should have studied for.”
“I recommend the prawns to start,” Arietta suggests, smiling at me warmly.
“That sounds great.” I set the menu down, needing a moment to settle myself for this conversation and not really caring what we eat.