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)
As promised, there is a loaded buffet and I sample a little of everything on offer. I greet a few classmates, most of them wearing the same rueful expression I probably am. Who voluntarily chooses to attend a sculpture exhibit on a Friday night?
And then I spot her across the room, standing in front of a sculpture cast in copper that has her full attention, like there’s no one else in the exhibit hall.
“Verity?”
Her name cannons from my mouth before I have time to debate or analyze if I want to see her.
Who the hell am I kidding? Of course I want to see her. I’ve wanted to see her since I left Petra’s apartment a few weeks ago.
She turns her head sharply, shock stamped on the face that is even prettier than I remembered.
“Monk? What are you doing here?”
“My professor made me do it,” I say, taking another step closer so I can breathe in her fresh scent with just a hint of something citrusy beneath.
“You have Dr. Garrison, too?”
“Yeah.” I frown because there’s no way I could have overlooked the woman whose memory has been torturing me sitting in a room of only twenty students. “When’s your class?”
“Eight o’clock, Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays.”
“Oh, hell no. That’s some freshman shit. What you doing up that early for a class?”
“Well, by the time I transferred in, all the lazy spots were gone.”
“I got your lazy.” I laugh. “It’s in bed with me when you drag your ass to class while it’s still dark outside, three mornings a week.”
We both seem to hear “in bed with me” at the same time because the smiles die on our faces. I give up on trying to act natural, on trying not to stare. Her textured curls are gathered on top. Tendrils float around her cheeks and wisps cling to the elegant line of her neck. I think her sweater is cashmere. It’s black and stops just shy of her belly button. Reminds me of the one she wore that night. A small tantalizing strip of brown skin shows just above the waistband of her slim-fitting leather skirt, also black and paired with short black boots. And black square-framed glasses.
“I didn’t know you wore glasses,” I say, grappling for something to hold on to in this conversation because seeing her again, being this close to her, is going to my head.
“Only when I want to see.” She grins and pushes them up her nose with one finger. “Usually contacts.”
“Nothing to see here,” I say, looking around the exhibit hall. “To be honest, I’m dipping as soon as I can sneak past Dr. G.”
“Wow, and to think I had you mistaken for a man of culture. A real renaissance dude.”
“Just because I play a few instruments doesn’t mean I want to spend my Friday night in a room full of statues.”
“‘A room full of statues’ seems pretty reductive for some of the finest sculptures of this century,” she says dryly. “But okay.”
I fold my arms over my chest and lift one brow. “What’s so fascinating in here?”
Her gaze drifts to a piece against the wall with LED lights suspended overhead.
“That one.” She nods to it and approaches the sculpture that has caught and held her attention. It’s the copper piece, an abstract interpretation of fire. Each lick of flame has a life of its own, separate from the conflagration and yet somehow consumed by it.
I lean forward to read the small plaque beneath the sculpture.
“Flame.” I slide her a wry smile. “Clever title. How’d they come up with that?”
I expect a quick rejoinder, but her attention is riveted by the piece and her eyes never stray from it.
“Huh?” she asks after another few seconds, tearing her focus away from the sculpture. “What’d you say?”
“I was making a joke.” I wave my hand, dismissing my own bullshit. “A bad one. Never mind. You really like this piece, huh?”
“I don’t know if like is the right word.” She bites her bottom lip and turns her attention back to the sculpture. “But it elicits a strong response from me.”
I could tell her she elicits a strong response from me, but I’ll try not to be the asshole who breaks up a happy home.
“So how’s Petra?” I ask, ripping off the Band-Aid.
“Oh. She’s… she’s good.” Verity pushes her glasses up to the top of her head so they nest in the curls and rubs the hem of her cropped sweater between restless fingers. “She’s fine. We aren’t… well, we’re not together anymore. We broke up not too long after the night… well, after that night. Two weeks ago.”
I go completely still, my body absorbing the new, vital information before my mind has time to catch up.
“We’re still friends,” Verity rushes on. “Matter of fact, we probably hang out more now than when we were dating.”