Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 104532 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 523(@200wpm)___ 418(@250wpm)___ 348(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 104532 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 523(@200wpm)___ 418(@250wpm)___ 348(@300wpm)
She stands, putting space between us. “I studied fine arts.”
“I know.” When she gives a start, I add, “I read your HR file at the office.”
“That’s illegal,” she exclaims.
I raise a brow.
She drops the subject. Yeah. If you’ve stolen someone’s program, you’re hardly in a position to judge a little hacking.
“Jobs in my field are scarce.” She shrugs. “I was thinking of trying at some tattoo parlors.”
I don’t show my surprise. When I imagine fine arts, I imagine the paintings I’ve stolen from fancy galleries and museums. I imagine art brokers and curators, not tattoo artists. In my very uneducated opinion, there’s a huge difference between a Van Gogh and your local tattoo artist’s version of a starry night, but what do I know? Ian is the expert on tats.
I straighten. “I’ll check with a few guys in Pretoria.”
“Really?” she asks, her eyes wide.
“Really.” I go after her, cornering her against the cupboard. I’ve never chased after a woman, but since meeting Violet, I’ve done a lot of chasing. When it comes to us, that’s all I seem to be doing. Cupping her face, I brush a thumb over her cheek. “I already told you. I want you to be happy.”
“Okay,” she says with a frown, as if she still finds that hard to believe.
It’s the hardest truth I’ve ever admitted, that I want her happiness more than my own, enough to let Elliot get away with what she’s done. The choice, on the other hand, was easy. I’ll do it again if given the chance.
Ultimately, I want to be happy. I want us to be happy, but betrayal is like a gorge between us that I don’t know how to bridge.
I drop my hand as the truth cools the moment and that fragile suspension bridge rocks in our turbulent winds.
Her lavender eyes darken. She’s read my mood. She’s probably accurately guessed my train of thought.
Adamant not to spoil the moment again, I turn for the door. “I have to get ready for work.”
“Leon,” she says to my back.
I stop. I can count the number of times she’s spoken my name on one hand. I wait, holding my breath, willing her to say the words I want to hear.
Her voice is soft. “Thank you for the breakfast.”
“You’re welcome,” I say, not looking at her.
Breakfast is her right. Providing for her needs is my duty, my privilege.
Thanking me for a privilege I stole isn’t the words I was hoping to hear. Thank you are not the words that will heal us.
CHAPTER 7
Violet
Truthfully, I don’t know what to do with myself. I have a beautiful house, a pool, and an indoor garden at my disposal. I could swim, draw, read, or nap. I should probably be exercising and cleaning. I can’t live here and let Leon take care of the cooking and tidying, no matter how much I hate him. I’m only grateful he doesn’t have a nosy housekeeper like Flora. I like my privacy. It’s refreshing, but being alone all day also takes getting used to.
The first thing I do when Leon leaves for the office is call my mom. I don’t only want to make sure that she’s not veering from the straight and narrow now that I’m not there to keep an eye on her, but I also want to reassure her that I’m okay. I know she worries.
She suggests coming over to Leon’s place for lunch. Realizing how strange it is that my own mother hasn’t visited my new home yet and feeling guilty for not thinking of inviting her sooner, I give her the address. With all that’s happened yesterday, a family celebration was the last thing on my mind.
She arrives at noon with a large casserole dish of lasagna. “You can pop some in the freezer,” she says, putting the dish on the kitchen table before kissing my cheek. “For a day when you don’t feel like cooking.”
“Thanks,” I say, playing along and pretending I’m a regular housewife who’ll cook for her husband and welcome him at the door when he comes home from work.
“Wow,” she says, looking around the open space. “The house is very original.” She pushes the strap of her handbag over her shoulder and drops it on a chair. “Do I get a tour?”
“Of course.” I try to smile with enthusiasm. “Let me show you around.”
She pops her head around every doorframe, inspecting each room as we go along, and sucks in a breath when she sees the pool.
“This is an unexpected gem,” she says. “It must add a lot to the value of the property. It’s on the small side, but you can always upgrade to a bigger house with a proper garden later.”
“This is more than enough space for the two of us,” I say, leading the way upstairs.
“As I said, for later.” Her tone is forced casual. “You know, when the family grows.”