Total pages in book: 154
Estimated words: 148473 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 742(@200wpm)___ 594(@250wpm)___ 495(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 148473 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 742(@200wpm)___ 594(@250wpm)___ 495(@300wpm)
No, you will regret it.
With tightness in my muscles but a determination to fix whatever’s wrong powering me, I walk over to Maeve where she’s standing by the window. “Hey,” I say, setting a hand on her shoulder. “What’s going on?”
She turns to me, wearing a sad smile. “It’s silly,” she says with a sigh. “Sometimes I get down about work. You know? Sometimes it just seems like…things aren’t going to happen for me.”
My heart squeezes for her. “I’m sorry you’re feeling that way. I’m sure they will though.”
“Maybe. Who knows? I’m trying to be hopeful. But at some point, am I just chasing something I can never catch, Asher?” Her throat hitches.
Heart lurching, I reach for her, pulling her into a hug. “You’re going through self-doubt. That’s normal. For any artist.”
“I wonder if my mom ever did,” she whispers into my chest.
I run my hand down her back. “I’m sure she did.”
“I don’t know. I think she was always successful,” Maeve says, her voice…small. Her usual bravado is noticeably absent.
I pull back and tuck a finger under her chin. “You are successful. You’re always working.”
Rolling her eyes, she scoffs. “Always hustling.”
“And the hustle pays off,” I say.
She shoots me a look like I’ve gone mad. “I don’t know about that.” She sighs heavily, like she’s resigning herself to finally sharing since she adds, “Not everyone makes it. Not everyone pulls it off. What if it’s time to throw in the towel when it comes to painting? You know that’s what Vivian wants. She wants me to go full-time with her. And then maybe to take things over when she retires. Like me running a catering business is a good idea,” she says with an eye roll.
But it’s a real pressure she feels from her aunt, who’s tried in her own, sometimes misguided, way to look out for Maeve.
I want to tell Maeve not to worry about her aunt, but family is complicated. Mine seems easy on the surface, but we’ve had our exhausting years.
I want to tell Maeve, too, that the decorative art she makes is great, but that’s not what she wants to hear right now, I suspect. “You know I don’t think it’s towel-throwing-in time, now or ever. You know I think you’re amazing at what you do. But I hear you that it’s hard, and I’m sorry you’re feeling that right now,” I say.
“I hate to admit it, but I guess I’ve kind of been in a…spiral this past week.”
Well, that’s no good, but she came to the right guy. “What can we do about it?” I ask, cupping her shoulders, rising to the occasion. “How can we un-spiral you?”
She peers around the room, then to the windows overlooking the glittering streets below, then back to me. “I just want to have fun tonight, okay? How does that sound?”
“Well, it’s what I was planning on too,” I say dryly.
“I know,” she says, tone playful again, and that’s a promising step in the un-spiraling. “I just mean—let’s have a great time. Let’s not think about anything else. Just…this night.”
I know just what the doctor ordered. “One second,” I say, then hustle over to the bar, grab the champagne split and loosen the cage. I hold the bottle at an angle, then pop open the cork.
Maeve joins me, her hazel eyes twinkling with mischief. “Do not even bother with a glass. Let’s drink it just like that.”
I lift the open bottle. “To fun. Just fun. Nothing else is allowed tonight. Got that?”
“Just fun,” she echoes, then snags the bottle from me, lifts it, and brings it to her lips. I don’t stare, I swear I don’t stare, I seriously promise I don’t stare.
Ah, fuck it.
I stare unabashedly as her lush lips meet the green glass and she tips some bubbly down her throat. Then she lowers the bottle, and hands it to me. “Your turn.”
“To just fun,” I say, then knock some back. I’m not thinking of where her lips were. I’m not tasting her raspberry lipstick.
News flash: I fucking am.
But I set down the bottle like a good friend. Not a dirty fucker. “It’s my personal mission to make sure you have fun tonight. Think of me as your fun guide.”
And failure is not an option.
Her smile is buoyant, and it feels like old times between us. “We’re going to have the best time at the concert tonight,” she says, patting my chest. It’s a friendly gesture, like she did after the kiss that we don’t speak of.
Her hand on me feels annoyingly good—so good I want to cover it, press her palm closer to my pecs, kiss that lush mouth one more time, and tell her to sink to her knees.
And that inappropriate thought was brought to you by Las Vegas.
I shake it off as I check my watch. We should get a move on. “I’d better shower before we head out.”