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"It wouldn’t have hurt for you to turn up more often at your job. No wonder you got laid off."
"It was a construction job. It didn’t count." He rolls his shoulders.
"Didn’t count? For what? Every job counts. Every bit of money you brought in would have helped. But you never did take paying the bills seriously. You just let me pay the bills and were happy to coast along. And now, I know why." I jerk my chin in the direction of the house.
"What do you mean?" He frowns.
"Clearly, you were brought up in the lap of luxury. I’m guessing you were spoiled, and that’s why you don’t know the value of money."
His features twist. "That’s not fair, Lena. You know how much I have sacrificed to stay on the artist’s path. I have to be true to myself. I need to experience true despair, true angst to be able to paint."
"So why not take yourself off to a third-world country and live like a backpacker? Living in a studio in Hackney with your girlfriend paying your rent is not exactly slumming it."
He stares at me for a second, then chuckles. "This is why I keep you around. You always manage to put me in my place."
I stare at him, catching a glimpse of his sense of humor, which I had once found so attractive. That, and the fact that he doesn’t give a damn about rules of any kind. He has a fearlessness about him that appeals to me. He wasn’t worried about paying bills, or having a career, or any of the myriad of things I worried about all the time. I also resented him for it because it meant I had to shoulder the responsibilities for both of us.
I’m partially to blame, though. I might have encouraged him to spend more time on his art. I love the fact he’s creative; I often wishIcould be more creative. Which is probably why I ended up working for an advertising agency after my expensive university education. The fact that I had even managed to become a part of the internship program with them had been an achievement. Too bad I didn’t make the cut to be offered a job. So, it’s back to the drawing board—or rather, the computer—to send my resumes off to potential employers.
Isaac takes my hand in his and tugs.
"Hey." I lose my balance and fall against him. He wraps his arm around my waist and hauls me to my toes. Which still means I only reach somewhere in the vicinity of his chest. At six-foot, three-inches, he’s much taller than my five-foot, four-inch height. I’d never thought of myself as petite until I ran into Isaac.
He lowers his head and brushes his lips over mine. "I’m sorry I’ve been such an asshole. I know I’ve been self-indulgent in staying focused on my art. You know us artists; we’re essentially selfish people." He smiles that charming-as-hell smile of his, and my heart melts a little. I’m such a pushover. I dig my fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck and tug.
"Ow." His grin widens. "What was that for?"
"Don’t think you can bedazzle me into forgiving you for your assholeness."
He laughs. "So, I bedazzle you?"
I scowl, "I mean it, Isaac. I refuse to become one of those women who’s continually making excuses for her boyfriend."
"Aww, babe, but I love it when you take care of me." He tickles my side and I can’t stop the giggle that bubbles up my throat. "There she is." He lowers his head and brushes his lips over mine again. Soft, pleasant, so familiar. I flutter my eyes shut and sink into the ease of the kiss. Undemanding, so normal, just how I like it. Of course, I still have to find a job, I can’t stay here for too long. That’s assuming his father allows us to stay at all. Lord knows, there’s space here for all of us, and if he doesn’t, well… I’m not sure what I’m going to do, to be honest. I—
The sound of the door opening reaches me. I try to pull away, but of course, Isaac doesn’t let go. He tightens his grasp on me, holds me in place, and deepens the kiss. I dig my fingers into his shoulders and push, and he finally releases me.
"So, you decided to show up?" a man’s deep voice states from the doorway.
I pull away, wipe the back of my hand over my mouth, then turn toward the new arrival. I have to tilt my head back, and farther back, to meet his gaze. Dark eyes, coal black; there’s not a shred of emotion in them. Thick hair cut at the sides and slightly long on top, all combed back from that cruel face. With streaks of gray at the temples that only add to the sense of authority he carries about him. Is this Isaac’s father? If so, there isn’t much resemblance with his son, except for the height, and maybe around his eyes. This man is way more confident, more self-possessed, more dominant. His shoulders are broad, broader than Isaac’s, and thickly corded. He crosses his arms across his chest and his biceps stretch the material of his suit. The jacket is as black as his eyes and definitely stitched by a master tailor on Savile Row. A blue silk tie is knotted around his collar. Who wears a tie at home? Apparently, this man does. It suits him, though. It completes his Lord of the Manor look, along with the snowy white shirt that is a stark contrast to his tanned features. He looks me up and down and a sneer twists his lips. Then he turns his attention on Isaac. It feels like someone dumped a bucket of cold water on me.What the hell? Did he just judge me and discard me like I’m of no consequence? How dare he?I open my mouth, but Isaac grabs my wrist and pulls me close. The man’s gaze drops to where Isaac’s fingers curl around my wrist. His frown deepens. Once more, he glances at his son. Then pushes away from the door. Without another word, he pivots and walks away, leaving it to us to follow.
What the—?I stare after him, trying to shut my mouth.
"Don’t mind him. He always has a giant stick up his arse," Isaac whispers.
It’s more like he has the entire Big Ben stuck up his backside.
I step over the threshold, and Isaac follows with my suitcase. “What do you have in there, bricks?” He pants.
“Books,” I reply, taking in my surroundings. Hold on. “Is that an original?” I point to the painting by the doorway.
“It’s a Monet.”
My jaw drops, “Your father has a Monet worth millions?”
“Billions,” he corrects me.
“Billions.” I wince. “In the hallway.”
