Total pages in book: 56
Estimated words: 54103 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 271(@200wpm)___ 216(@250wpm)___ 180(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 54103 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 271(@200wpm)___ 216(@250wpm)___ 180(@300wpm)
"My friend cancelled, and I have to rush into town for a business meeting."
"Ah, so no work this morning, then?"
"I do need a painting of Nico in the garden. I think that would look absolutely magnificent. Perhaps you could do that instead?"
"Isn't he busy?"
"He can spare the morning for this."
I nibble my fingernail. Is Gianna doing this on purpose? Is her nickname Cupid, or is she merely being considerate?
"Have you asked him?" I say.
"No, but if I explain the circumstances, I'm sure he'd be delighted to assist."
"No – that's okay."
"If you're sure..."
"No – I mean yes. Call him. Let me know his response."
I end the call, toss the phone onto the bed, and stare vacantly like a fool. When anything involves Nico, my cognitive abilities seem to evaporate.
A minute later, my cell phone rings again.
"He said he's delighted to help."
"He said that?" I ask, contemplating the fact that he hasn't attempted to contact me, even though I specifically told him not to, and have no legitimate reason to harbor resentment about it.
"Yes, then," I say hastily, because...
Well, I need the work. I'm going stir crazy without something to channel my energy into. It's hardly my fault Gianna's friend couldn't make it, and this is the next best alternative. I promised that one night was all it would be. He's honoring that.
I should be grateful.
Oh, the stories we tell ourselves.
"I'll arrange a car like last time," Gianna says.
"Thank you. Will they text me when they arrive? There's been some... stuff."
"Stuff?"
"Nothing crazy. Just people loitering, dealing, blasting music, intimidating passersby."
"Ah, I understand, that sort of trouble. Yes, they'll text. Thank you for being so accommodating."
I prepare my supplies, meticulously checking everything to ensure I'm ready for the painting session. Am I thrilled to be painting Nico despite my resolution to sever all connections with him?
Absolutely not.
Or perhaps that's a big fat lie.
I concentrate on the immediate task. Paint tubes are organized into a sealed tin, sorted by hue for easy access later. Brushes – immaculately clean and dry – slide into a canvas roll I secure tightly. Palette wrapped in wax paper, nestled flat between sketch pads. I pour a measured amount of solvent into a screw-top jar, double-checking the seal. Rags, pristine and precisely folded, go into a side pouch.
Anticipation ripples through me as I contemplate seeing Nico. My body still aches with the aftermath of our encounter.
My cell phone rings. A call, not a text. An attentive driver, evidently.
It's Nico. My breath catches. Catches what, exactly? A severe case of holy heck, I can’t wait to see him again.
Attempting to regain composure, I answer, "Hi, Nico. I'm waiting for the driver."
"And he’s arrived."
"How would you know?"
I'm convinced I can detect his smirk through his tone. "Because I'm your chariot, Cinderella."
"You're giving me a ride?"
He hesitates. Perhaps he's contemplating my wording too, the implication of the word 'ride,' the tantalizing prospect of straddling his lap, feeling his desire pressing through his clothing, rather than traveling to his mother's home for a painting session.
"When Mother called and requested this, I figured I might as well commit completely. Is that a problem?"
I remember my promise. One night. That night is over, so now it’s time to be good.
"No. Why would it?"
He chuckles softly.
I carry my bag of art supplies over my shoulder, clutching my easel against my side. Nico approaches from the opposite end of the street. A group of men at the corner, perched on their car hood with music blaring, watch us as Nico advances toward me.
"Let me help," he says.
Dashing? Undoubtedly. Striking? Without question.
He's dressed in a shirt with sleeves meticulously rolled up, no jacket, showcasing his sculpted arms. His hair is slightly disheveled, as though he's been continuously running his fingers through it while awaiting my arrival.
He takes my bag and easel effortlessly, carrying them toward his car. Two men from the group saunter over, probably intrigued by his expensive-looking car. A flicker of apprehension touches me. That's a familiar sensation in this neighborhood.
“Nice wheels, old man," one remarks. He's young, with two sleeves of messy tattoos, grills on his teeth.
"Walk away," Nico says dispassionately.
The man coughs out a derisive laugh. “Say what?"
"Walk away," Nico reiterates, his tone unwavering.
The man is about to retort when a third approaches. He's older. When he catches sight of Nico, unmistakable terror floods his expression. He whispers something to the tattooed man, and instantly, the tattooed man's expression mirrors the same dread.
"We won't bother you again," he says, glancing between Nico and me. "Either of you. Uh, enjoy your day."
Nico replies through clenched teeth. "Likewise."
In the car, as Nico pulls away, I ask, "What do you think he said?"
Nico's hands grip the steering wheel tightly. He's reluctant to talk about it. "No idea."
"It must’ve been related to who you are. Don't you think? You are connected to the mob."