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)
“Let me show you where you will be painting for the guests,” the butler says, his tone tinged with irritation. I can’t afford for anyone here tonight to be annoyed with me. The fashion designer has connections—he might recommend me. No one wants to hire a painter who becomes the center of attention at the party.
“Thank you for everything,” I say, trying to smooth things over as I pick up my supplies. “I appreciate it.” Asher grabs the easel, and I turn to him, improvising a bathroom scenario. “And thank you for helping me fix the zipper on this dress.”
“Anytime,” my temporary husband says.
“How utterly thoughtful,” the butler deadpans as he leads us down the hallway, polished shoes clicking. “It’s always helpful to have a partner who can assist.”
As we tread the mansion’s sleek halls, Asher drops a few feet back and whispers, “We’ll lie low tonight.” He nods to the front door. “I can leave if you want.”
No. God no. My heart rate gallops. I need him here. “Can you stay?”
“Of course,” he says. “I’ll keep out of the way.”
“And we can talk later?”
“Of course. And listen, if anyone does ask, we can say the marriage pact was part of this act of kindness, somehow. A viral stunt. Like we did it to get attention for this pay-it-forward thing.”
That’s not a bad idea at all.
“Yes! That’s so brilliant I could kiss you,” I say as we reach the giant sunken living room where I’ll set up in the corner. But then I wince. My desire to kiss him is what got us here in the first place—the bet for a kiss and all. “We can sort it out when I get a break. Sorry, and thank you.”
“Don’t think twice about it. I’ll fix it.” He sounds happy to help solve problems—because he always is. That’s what he does.
My throat tightens with emotion. He deserves so much better than someone like me. I’m a soda bottle shook up. A frothy drink spilling over. I reach for his arm and whisper in a choked voice, “You’re the best.”
For a second, he looks like he wants to kiss my forehead. And for a second, I linger on how much I’d like that—a soft, reassuring kiss that I could melt into.
That’s new—this longing.
But maybe not so new, given last night? And the way I rode him like I was test-driving a new vibe that does zero-to-O in thirty seconds.
As Asher disappears into the arriving partygoers, I set up and get to work.
19
MY WIFE
Maeve
Soon, the living room fills with art world types. Women in avant-garde jumpsuits and short dresses that look like they’ve stepped straight out of a runway show. Men in colorful pants and tight shirts. I try to capture scene after scene with my brush.
I paint Mr. Vincenzo as he sails through the house, interacting with his guests with some sort of Dachshund-Chihuahua mix tucked into the crook of his arm. He’s a short, stout man with thick glasses and a dapper polka-dot suit. I paint him, too, when he asks me if I’d be so kind as to please make sure to get DaVinci—the dog—in some of the scenes.
“I never skimp on dogs,” I say, then he smiles and weaves back into the crowd, stroking the dog’s long ears as he goes. I paint gallery owners who exude an air of refined taste. I paint artists who stand out with their eccentric styles. I paint models who move gracefully through the room.
I don’t stop even when a tall, wiry man with high cheekbones and toned arms in a tight shirt strides right over to me. No idea who he is, but his je ne sais quoi makes me think he’s a model.
“Mabel Hart?” he asks when he arrives by my side. He’s British, posh, and very imperfectly interesting-looking in the way models are today.
“Maeve Hartley,” I correct with a smile as I keep painting. It’s hard to keep track of names, so I don’t take it personally.
“My apologies. You do the geometric shapes art, if memory serves? They’re so lovely.” His tone is a little slurry like he’s had one too many pints. “So insightful. So bright.”
I don’t do geometrics at all, but I say kindly, “Actually, I’m more of a stylized realist, but I like to play with light and shadow.”
“Yes, that’s exactly what I was thinking,” he says, his voice smooth as he moves right next to me, maybe an inch away. “I met you at a fashion show one night, didn’t I? I believe it was for Isla Beaumont’s collection. You were doing these brilliant paintings then too.”
Well, I was there, but I was hired to cater, thanks to Aunt Vivian, not to paint. “She’s a wonderful designer. I’m sure you wore her clothes well.”
He brings a hand to his heart. “Oh, thanks, love. I’m so flattered you remember me. I’m Nigel,” he says, dropping his voice and glancing around as if making sure no one can hear him.