Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 72959 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 365(@200wpm)___ 292(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72959 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 365(@200wpm)___ 292(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
He fixes me with a level stare. “Who hurt you, Abigail?”
I realize that his anger isn’t directed at me; he’s incensed on my behalf.
Shock renders me mute. In my haste to get away, I revealed a far deeper secret than the fact that I don’t like his job. A few ill-considered words from me, and he can tell that I’ve been subject to financial control.
My heart squeezes. Despite my misgivings about his job, Dane is obviously a good man.
I compose myself and manage a small smile. My lips barely twitch at the corners.
“I have an early shift tomorrow,” I say instead of answering his intense query. “I really should go home.”
He considers me for another long moment before he sighs, allowing me to deflect his incisive question about my painful past.
“If you don’t want another drink, I’ll walk you home,” he says.
“You don’t have to do that,” I protest. “Stay here and enjoy your old fashioned.”
Even his frown is handsome, like some master sculptor chose to depict an ancient god’s divine disapproval.
“I came here to see you,” he replies. “I have no intention of staying without your company.”
I can’t force him to stay here without me. I get the sense that no one can force Dane to do anything.
“All right,” I acquiesce.
We go to the bar, and I don’t protest again when he pays for our drinks.
What if I want to take care of you? His question from the beginning of our date tempts and torments me.
Even though I know I’m avoiding eventual awkwardness at the café, the prospect of cutting this date short is becoming more difficult to bear.
My resolve wavers when we step into the elevator. The moment the golden doors close, erotic tension fills the space. He stands beside me, just at the edge of my bubble of personal space. Desire builds between us, making my skin tingle with anticipation of his touch. The phantom caress of his thumb on my lower back sends a shiver dancing through me. He hasn’t made physical contact since I pulled away from him on the rooftop, but in this private moment, he might as well be trailing his fingers along my spine.
The elevator comes to a merciful stop, and the doors open. Cool air conditioning floods the desire-heated space, like the shock of an icy shower after a long summer run.
We step out into the gallery space, and I’m so focused on evading his allure that I don’t pause to glance at the art that’s on display.
He has other ideas. With the barest brush of his fingers around my wrist, he gently urges me to turn away from the exit, so that I’m looking at the red abstract piece again.
“What do you like about it?” he asks, his voice dropping to that seductive register.
I can’t resist the calm ring of command.
“I’m an impressionist, but abstract expressionism fascinates me,” I reply.
My focus centers on the painting, but I’m still keenly aware of his hand on my wrist. His thumb slides along my palm, tracing my heartline in a shockingly intimate caress. My senses come alive, and the painting’s varied shades of red become richer, as though someone has turned up the saturation.
He releases a low hum. “Explain it to me. I just see red.”
I blink at him in surprise, and he shoots me a devastatingly sexy smirk. “I like science; you like art. I want to understand what you see when you look at it.”
“You seem like you belong in spaces like this,” I say, puzzled. Dane is almost painfully suave, and I’ve imagined him to be a man who enjoys the finer things in life. “I can easily picture you at a glitzy gallery opening with a glass of Champagne in your hand. Or at some sort of charity gala.”
It’s the kind of world I walked away from two years ago, and I’m surprised to realize that I don’t resent this impression I have of him. He embodies effortless elegance rather than putting on a show for others.
Maybe it’s just the sexy English accent throwing off my usual judgmental assessment of entitled rich people, but I can’t see Dane in the same negative light as I view my family’s social circle.
His eyes shutter for a second, and his smirk melts away. “I’ve attended my share of gallery openings and galas,” he allows. “It’s never meant much to me.”
His big hand fully engulfs mine, and my mind blanks for a moment as pure lust surges through me.
“Tell me what you see.”
Heat sinks from his hand into my flesh, warming me all the way to my core. He’s not looking at the painting anymore, but I’m fixated on it as though it’s the most breathtaking thing I’ve ever seen. His intense focus is centered on me again, and I bask in it like I’m soaking up the August sun on Folly Beach.