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Damn you, Ward.
I know what it looks like on paper.
Perfection.
In reality, he’s still my grump of a boss who I wasn’t good enough for until I happened to be at the right place at the right time to save Beatrice.
I’m not about to agree, so instead I say, “I’m sure you’d make sense with a lot of women in this city. I’m hardly the only chick who’s capable, educated, and into gorgeous architecture. A thousand girls would bend to fit whatever mold you want, no questions asked. You don’t want my smart mouth or my baggage.”
“That’s the problem, Paige. I fucking do,” he rumbles, something like a tiger’s low purr in his gruff tone. “Intelligent women in a city this size aren’t a rare commodity. Smart women with your brains, your looks, and your lady-stones to stand up to me...that’s another matter. I’ve been in this business for a long time. Everyone has a price. Name yours.”
Oh my God.
I feel like I can’t keep my feet on the ground.
Not with this crazy, sexy, downright desperate bull of a man determined to drag me away, whether I like it or not.
“Name it,” he demands again.
“W-what?”
“What do you want, Paige? Like really truly want? It’s yours. Tell me and I’ll write it into the contract.”
I try not to ask myself that, but he’s posed the question so perfectly I can’t avoid it. I sigh.
“What my friends have,” I whisper.
“Care to elaborate?”
“A business they love, an adoring husband, a family.” All wishes this genie in a tie can’t grant. “Just happiness at winning life, I guess.”
“Well, I don’t know if I can deliver all that. Not legally, anyway. But I can help with one of those. What kind of business would you want?”
Is this really happening?
I wouldn’t even know where to begin with a business, a life rich in art, and a family. I look at Sabrina and my cousin, Liv, like they won the lotto. Brina got herself a billionaire, while Liv hits the charts all the time with her books and wound up hitched to a fire single dad, Riker Woods, who’s constantly playing superhero at Enguard, a world-class security firm.
I’ve never really thought about making a serious grab for my dreams. Not after Austin.
The row of handcrafted miniatures on the faux mantle above the television catch my attention, all pet projects I sculpted by hand. The tongue-in-cheek anthropomorphic cat I made last year in the pose of The Thinker really hits home.
I know what I want to do. What I love. What I need.
“You really want to know? I’d like an art studio, but I’m not sure that’s a viable business,” I say, crossing my fingers.
“What kind of art?” he asks.
“I sculpt. Mostly a lot of figurines and busts because I’m limited to what I can do at the kitchen table. But back in college, I crafted a life-sized statue and it sold for a pretty penny at a gallery. With a studio and the right equipment, I could make bigger projects rather than just conforming to what’s available. But I wouldn’t know the first thing about turning an art studio profitable.”
“That’s the trouble with art schools,” Ward grumbles. “Tuition should pay for a course in how to make a living with an art degree.”
I laugh, harder than I should, considering the gravity. “I think that was included in the whole ‘most artists need a day job’ lecture that never happened.”
“Most people who want a day job don’t pay a hundred thousand dollars for a degree.”
“True, but it was a fun four years.”
“A hundred grand worth of fun?”
I laugh harder. “This is where I sound like a spoiled brat, like you and your brother—”
“So I’m a brat now?” he challenges.
“Come on, Ward. There has to be a reason I won’t fake date you for six hundred k.”
He laughs. “How are you a brat?”
“My parents paid my tuition, so I didn’t really think about the cost. I spent whole days cooped up in the studio working on my projects. Brina had to remind me to come back to our dorm and eat. I was the only person in my class to sell something for more than ten bucks before graduation. I thought I had it made. I was going to be the one art major out of ten thousand who actually finds fame and fortune. Maybe not Beatrice Brandt success, but at least I’d make a name for myself and scrape by doing what I love.”
He falls silent as I blush.
I’m rambling. Why would he even care?
But then his question comes like a shot.
“How have I worked with you all this time and not known that?”
I don’t know if he wants the truth, but he’s about to get it. “I think you decided who I was, and this doesn’t fit your narrative.”
