Total pages in book: 45
Estimated words: 44666 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 223(@200wpm)___ 179(@250wpm)___ 149(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 44666 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 223(@200wpm)___ 179(@250wpm)___ 149(@300wpm)
A rare smile touches his lips—a fleeting glimpse of the man beneath the doctor.
“Healing takes time.”
16
The thing about time? It’s a tricky sorcerer of illusion, first crawling slow enough to bleed me dry before accelerating without warning. A full week passes before I muster the courage to end my hiatus and face the studio I abandoned.
I push the door open, and the air hints at neglect and musty spaces. Daylight streams through the tall windows, casting streaks across the bolts of fabric.
Highlighting the dust.
Exposing my prolonged failure.
Unfinished sketches fan across tables. Measuring tape lies tangled on the floor. A prototype still wears the skeleton of something I once believed in, the burgundy silk drooping from the shoulders, one side pinned, and the other trailing like blood.
Everything is exactly as I left it, and something about that hurts.
I bend down before the tears win and gather the scraps. My fingers shake at first, but the motion steadies as I sweep fabric shavings into my hand. I sort and stack, lining up scissors, putting away stray bobbins, returning fashion magazines to the shelves.
When I reach the far end, my fingers graze a roll of silk, its texture cool to the touch, the hue a vivid sea-blue.
Like Sebastian’s eyes.
I close my own and rest my palm on the fabric, fighting the ache. Willing myself not to break into a pile of fresh pieces. With measured breaths, I mentally chant three words until nothing’s left but static between my ears…
Healing takes time.
So I take the time, even though deep down, I fear I’ll never find that girl again—the one who dreams and creates and designs.
I start by doodling curved lines at my drawing table, pausing now and then to stare out the window. The skies are clear today, the sun’s bright rays encouraging a symphony of birds.
As I return to my doodling, I’m taken aback by the direction those lazy lines took. It almost looks like the beginning of a gown with a royal train.
For some reason, that makes me laugh.
Because if this archaic system is going to force me into a marriage, I might as well become the spectacle everyone’s expecting.
I’m still giggling like a deranged hyena, the vacant room mocking me, when the door creaks open again, softer this time.
The laughter dies in my chest.
Elise pauses on the threshold, bundled in a silver cardigan that strains at the buttons. Her figure is fuller now, with the baby’s arrival not far off.
“I wasn’t sure if I should knock.” The uncertainty in her features stings, because she’s usually so optimistic.
“You’re always welcome.”
She steps inside before shutting the door behind her. “I wanted to talk to you at the memorial, but…”
“No, it’s okay. I was a mess.” Truth is, I barely remember that afternoon, let alone picking out faces in the blur, even familiar ones.
“It’s good to see you working again,” she says, taking in the room. Grime clings to the corners, gathering near a trail of bobby pins and half-buried thread.
“I’m not sure I’d call what I’m doing working, but I’m trying.”
“It’s a good start.”
“How have you been?” I ask, nudging us in a safer direction. “How’s the baby?”
“I’m fine. Baby’s good.” She looks at me then with an unspoken intensity that says more than her words do. “How are you doing?”
“Better.” Though the answer catches in my throat. “As long as I focus on the present.”
She nods, choosing not to push, then sinks into the chair across from me with a small wince, one hand settling on her midsection. “How are things with Oliver? Is he treating you well?”
My gaze strays, and for a moment, it’s not Oliver’s shadow I recall, but the sound of his footsteps retreating. Just last night, his longing lingered in the air, heavy with need, while I tried to escape through sleep.
“Novalee?”
I return to the conversation, but she’s already leaning forward, spotting something I didn’t mean to stitch into my expression.
“He’s not hurting you, is he?”
“No, nothing like that. He’s…” I trail off, my pencil gliding into the silhouette of a plunging bodice that bares more than it hides. “He’s getting under my skin.”
Her brows lift over wide blue eyes. “How’s he getting under your skin?”
“In a physical way.”
Okay, not exactly physical, since he hasn’t even touched me.
But there’s a connection, tenuous as it is, born from loss and…something I can’t quite name.
He always seems confident and put together, dressed to make a statement, every I dotted and T crossed.
Until I spot him at his desk or on the treadmill, his feet pounding a steady rhythm.
It’s in those rare moments, when he doesn’t know I’m watching, that I sense the loneliness he doesn’t want me to see.
The pain he can never outrun.
Elise studies me with quiet fascination, her chin propped on her hand. “You like him.”
“I don’t know how I feel about him.” I set the pencil down and nudge it with my fingertip until it stops spinning. “But he’s treating me better than most.”