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My throat hurts. My mouth tastes like garbage. I groan, roll out of bed, and stagger into the bathroom where I splash water on my face and drink straight from the faucet.
I drag clothes over my head and stumble downstairs in search of something to eat. My stomach’s completely empty.
“I almost forgot about you,” Marina says when I shuffle into the kitchen.
I slump down at the table. “Great to see you too.”
“You’ve been busy.” She brings over coffee and cream. “Hungry?”
“Starving. I’d like one of everything.”
“Everything?”
“In the kitchen.”
She laughs and pats my shoulder. “A big breakfast then. Coming right up.”
I drink coffee and watch her work. It’s nice, having nothing to do but sit and stare and let the caffeine bring me back to life. I’m feeling more myself when she piles the table with pancakes, waffles, eggs, toast, bacon, and sausages. I help myself, chowing down like a maniac, stuffing it all into my mouth as fast as I can chew.
“Easy there,” Marina says, refilling my coffee. “Erick would be very upset if you choked.”
“She’s right,” he says, coming into the room. I look up, bacon dangling from between my lips. He makes a face. “It would be a shame if you died because you couldn’t control yourself.”
I chew and swallow like a good lady should. “I can control myself just fine, thank you.” I sit up straight, using my utensils, shoving half a waffle down my throat.
He laughs, kisses Marina’s cheek, gets coffee, and joins me. Erick’s sweaty, straight from the gym, and focuses on the proteins.
“I met with Frost. He had an art evaluator with him.”
I freeze. Nerves jangle in my chest. I’m absolutely confident in my work, but feeling that way is different from someone actually looking at it. “What did he say?”
“He asked if it was really a forgery. He seemed blown away.”
I relax slightly. Warmth floods my body again. “Come on, seriously?”
“I’m not kidding. You should’ve seen the guy’s face, it was like he was witnessing a miracle.”
Marina comes over and puts more bacon on the plate. “You ask me, it was a miracle. A wonderful miracle.”
“Thanks,” I say, cheeks turning pink. I’ve never gotten so much praise for my own work before in my life.
“Frost wants another one.”
Those words make me drop my fork. I feel a headache bloom. The thought of painting another in five days— “I can’t,” I say, trying not to lose it.
“You have a month.”
I groan, leaning forward. “A month?”
“I argued for two, we settled on one. Is that enough time?”
I nearly weep from relief. “A month is fucking great.”
“You won’t have to kill yourself, at least.”
“Compared to five days, it’ll be leisurely.”
“Good.” He seems concerned as he tilts his head. “I don’t want a repeat of last time. I don’t want you to go back to that place.”
