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I nod this time, watching her depart before I take Frank off speaker phone. “Tell me the players in this game.”
He begins a detailed rundown of who is involved with what and what’s happened, which on his part is a pathetic example of legal work. He has no fire left in him, and Faith needs fire on her side right now. Fifteen minutes later, Frank and I end the call just before Faith appears in the doorway, now wearing paint-spattered jeans and a T-shirt. “Well?”
“He’s not done enough. I will. We’ll talk through a plan before I leave.”
She studies me several long beats. “Thank you, Nick.”
“Tiger on this, sweetheart. That’s a promise.”
“Tiger,” she says. “There’s a coffee pot in the corner. And a mini fridge with random creamers, which shouldn’t be expired because they last a scary long time when you think about it.”
“Thanks, sweetheart,” I say. “You’re going to paint?”
“I am.”
“Will I get to see the results?”
She gives me a coy smile. “Maybe.” She slips away, and I glance down at the paperwork in front of me, craving time I don’t have to review it in more detail.
I grab my briefcase from the ground beside me and pull out my MacBook and review what North has sent me. That’s when Mozart fills the air, a sign that Faith remembers I work to classical music. And what’s crazy is that no other woman has ever known that about me. I’ve only just met Faith, and I’ve let her see parts of me no one else has. I stand and walk to the door to find her standing at the easel, my painting no longer on the ground. It’s in front of her, pleading for her brush, and I wonder if she’s still looking for the lies that I’ve sworn I despise but can’t stop telling her.
Chapter Eighteen
Faith
Nick and I spend the rest of Saturday afternoon and into the evening inside my studio, him in my office, me sitting in front of a once-blank canvas with a brush in hand. And I do what I love—what I have denied myself for far too long.
I paint, and I do so without hesitation.
I paint without what I now believe to be the fear of the past few months. Fear of failure. Fear of disappointment. Fear of seeing myself through my brush when I do not like who and what the past few months have made me.
I paint Nick.
His strong face.
His piercing eyes.
His tattoos.The tiger. The words:An eye for an eye.
And I do all of this while trying to understand a man who seems to understand me perhaps too well. I also do so quite entertained by the way he paces my office, throws paper balls at a trash can, talks to himself, and then repeats.Hiscreative process. And what I like about seeing this is that the hard work shows me what’s beneath the arrogance.
Amazingly, too, at random times, I look up from my canvas to find him standing at the office door, his broad shoulder resting against the doorway, a force that consumes the room while he intently watches me work, and I do not withdraw. I’m okay with him being here. I’m okay with him observing my creative process when I havenever allowed anyone to watch me work, including Macom. But then, Macom was always critical of every creative choice I made, and Nick…is not.
But then, Nick and I are new to each other, and time changes people. I’ve often wondered when my father became my mother’s man-child rather than her husband. Was it instant? Was it at one month? One year? Ten years? Every question leads me back to the paint on my brush and the man in my office. That’s the great thing about a one-night hard limit: it never has time to go sour. The person can never see too much or know too much. And yet, any minute now, Nick and I will be at two.
Unless I send him away.
As if he senses where my thoughts are, I feel him, rather than see him, step back into the doorway of my office. And after hours of this push and pull of wordless energy between us, I don’t have to look at him to know that one of his broad shoulders rests on the doorway. Or that those piercing blue eyes of his are on me, not the sun fading and washing the green from the mountainsides, soon to disappear and leave them black. But this time, I do not allow him to watch me work.
Instead, I clean my brush and remove my smock. Then and only then do I lift my gaze to meet his. He doesn’t speak, but his eyes are softer now but still warm. So very warm. Not the kind of warm that says he’s about to strip me naked and remind me why I can’t resist him, but warm with affection. And that kind of warm, mixed with the fact that he sees too much and knows too much, should be exactly why I send him on his way.
Hard limit:One night.
Inhaling, I tell myself that limits are not made to be broken. My limit was meant to protect me.
I start walking toward him, and I know immediately why I need that protection. Because he affects me on every possible level, inside and out. Because as those warm eyes of his track my every step, I feel his attention like a touch when it’s not a touch at all. I feel this man in so many ways that I have never felt with another. And I have only just met him. What impact might he have on me, what things might he see in me that I do not want seen, if he were with me beyond my hard limit?
There is little time for me to answer this question, as my path to him is short, and when I stop in front of him, he doesn’t touch me.Free will.The decision about tonight is in the air.
