Total pages in book: 111
Estimated words: 105708 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 529(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105708 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 529(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
My stomach does this funny loopy thing it’s never done in my life with the words bring home dinner. Like home is something we share. It’s just a phrase, of course. It means nothing, but then, Nick does nothing by accident. And I’m officially falling so damn hard for Nick that there is no turning back. I’m in this, no matter how broken I end up.
I text back: I can make my famous pancakes.
He replies with: Only if you make them naked.
I laugh and type: Batter splatters.
Good point, he replies. I want every inch of that gorgeous body feeling good next to mine. Call you soon, sweetheart.
Sara appears in my doorway. “It’s getting late. Are you staying a while?”
“Are you?”
“Chris isn’t answering his phone, which means he’s lost in his work. I figure I’ll work another hour or so and then take him dinner.”
“Nick is working late. I figured I’d stay another hour and then head home.” Home. Now I said home.
Sara catches it, too, her lips curving. “It’s nice to have you here in the city. I want coffee. You want coffee? They make a killer white mocha next door.”
“White mocha?” I ask, perking up. “I’m in.” I grab my purse and slip it over my shoulder before sticking my phone inside.
“Great. We can dash over there and be back in a few minutes.”
We make our way to the door and step outside, both of us hugging ourselves against a chilly wind, the smell of the ocean air touched by the scent of fresh, hot nuts from a nearby vendor. In that moment, I decide I love this city. The smells. The art. The energy. Nick.
“We have arrived,” Sara announces, indicating a door only a block from the gallery.
“Rebecca’s,” I murmur, reading the writing on the door. “Didn’t Chris paint something dedicated to Rebecca?”
“He did,” she says, and rather than offering more detail, she opens the door, motioning me forward.
I enter the adorable little shop with paintings of people drinking coffee on the walls, clusters of wooden tables, and booths lining the left wall. Sara joins me, and we approach the register, where a glass display case allows me to drool over a tempting selection of cookies and sweets.
“Usual, Sara?” a tall man with dark brown hair and glasses asks.
“You know it, Mick,” Sara replies, “and anything Faith wants is on the house now and forever.” She glances at me. “We own this place, too. Mick is our manager and co-owner.”
“Oh, well then, thank you to you both,” I say, placing my order, and it’s not long before Sara and I claim one of the cute wooden booths in the back of the shop, with Mick’s promise to bring us our drinks.
“So, you own the gallery and the coffee shop,” I say. “That’s a great combination so close together.”
“Well, there is a connection, which is Rebecca. It’s a long story, but she worked for the gallery. She spent a lot of time here. We were going to rename the gallery Rebecca’s, but we had some name recognition issues and decided to make the coffee shop Rebecca’s. We remodeled it to add these cute booths and overhauled the menu. We wanted it to be her place.”
Our order arrives, and by the time we’re alone again, despite my curiosity about Rebecca, I never get the chance to ask questions. “Oh yikes,” Sara says. “I just realized I left my purse and phone next door. I need to run back.”
“Of course,” I say, and we hurry to the door and back to the gallery.
“Before you go back to work,” Sara says, “I want to show you something in my office.”
I follow her to the corner office and step inside, my lips parting instantly. “Oh my God,” I whisper at the sight of a mural on the wall behind the massive mahogany desk. A painting of the Eiffel Tower in Chris’s signature black and white. “It’s incredible,” I murmur, crossing to stand behind the desk, studying the tiny details that few artists ever master.
“Look up,” Sara says, and, obediently, my gaze lifts to find another European scene.
“The Spanish Steps,” I say, and I can’t help myself. I set my cup down and lay down on the floor, staring up at it. More details. More perfection. “Wow.”
Sara laughs and appears above me. “How’s the view from down there?”
“Spectacular. He’s incredible, Sara. Each step is different. The shadows. The shading. The texture.”
“Sara.”
At the sound of Chris’s voice, my eyes go wide, a cringe following. How did I let myself end up on the floor?!
“Chris,” Sara says, whirling around to greet him.
“Fuck, Sara,” he says, his voice growing closer. “Why aren’t you answering your phone?”
Sara is around the desk in a heartbeat, and I don’t know what to do. Stay down or get up?
“I forgot it when we went to the coffee shop.”