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“You’d be stupid not to sell with that number.” Jamie handed my phone back to me and without thinking I locked it, shoving it in my pocket. “Fifteen million, Dad.”
“Fifteen . . .” Mr. Gaines sounded shocked, almost as shocked as I was when I first saw the numbers, “What's your cash flow? How much, on average, do you bring in in a month?” He leaned forward on the counter.
Before I could answer, Janet spoke for me. “Oh Howard, let's not talk business at the table.”
“We’re not at the table, Janet, and I’m simply asking Daxton a question.” Mr. Gaines looked at his wife, watching her shake her head. “Do you have an accountant?”
“Of course he has an accountant,” Jamie answered, her hand sliding up my back and settling on my shoulder. “The best one New York can offer.”
I looked over at Jamie, loving the feeling on her hand on me, but not loving where the conversation was going. “He worked in the office with me, but moved to New York, he works remotely from there,” I added.
Her dad stood up, grabbing the pile of plates that Janet had set in front of him.
“Jamie, Daxton, could you please help the kids take down the fort so we can actually sit at the table for dinner?” Janet asked, diverting the topic at hand.
Mr. Gaines seemed to get the picture: no business at the dinner table. I welcomed the distraction that cleaning up brought, mymind still reeling from Clay’s email. Fifteen million dollars was a lot . . . a hell of a lot more than what I was expecting.
“Hey.” Jamie came up close to me. “Are you okay?”
Brushing away the uneasy feeling—or was it excitement—that had crept up since I opened my phone, I nodded, leaned in, and gave her a quick kiss. If anyone was going to bring me back to the present, it was Jamie.
“I’m perfect,” I answered.
Chapter Twenty Six
-Jamie-
Icould see Elliot’s unease the moment we sat down so I linked my pinky with his, holding onto it for the entire dinner. Once he helped me put my coat, and we walked to our tiny cabin, and he was able to be Elliot again, he let out a deep, heavy sigh. He didn't even take his shoes off, he just went straight for the couch, flopping on it with all his weight. I swear I could hear the couch creek.
“Fifteen . . .” I began.
“Million dollars,” he finished.
“Maybe you should talk to my dad, he may be able to help with the logistics of it?” I stood in front of him in the living room, tempted to straddle him and kiss him like the night before, but I could see the stress in his eyes—the weight that was being putonto his shoulders.
He scrunched his nose. “Yea, but if I talk to your dad, he’ll know I’m not Daxton, architect boyfriend of the year, and that I’m simply just Elliot . . . the man who owns a company but really just wants to run off with his daughter.”
Placing my hands on my hips and cocking my body to the side, I looked at Elliot with, what I hoped, was a sexy smirk. “You just want to run off me with me, huh?”
“Well, yea,” he admitted. “I thought that was obvious.”
A loud laugh escaped my lungs. “Only to Jillian, apparently.” I turned, leaving him alone in the living room as I made my way back upstairs. “Now, don’t bug me. I’m going to keep painting.”
“Can I get a goodnight kiss at least?” he called, his voice bouncing off the walls into the loft.
“For fifteen million dollars,” I replied, half-expecting him to run up the stairs and start something that I was too nervous to finish, but he stayed right where he was, laughing under his breath.
The next few days before the arts fest officially started were slow and relaxing. Elliot joined the kids for another blanket fort movie night, and this time they invited me. The pure thought of sitting next to Elliot, with my legs wrapped around his for two hours while we watched Captain Jack do stupid things was absolute bliss. And no one questioned it, because this is what boyfriends and girlfriends did. Jillian would smile at us as we acted like a couple. Between the small touches and glances, the kisses on my cheek or simply just letting the other know where the other was going to be, the line between dating and fake dating was starting to get very, very thin.
Each morning he would greet me with a kiss and a cup of coffee before returning back to his laptop or notebook for the morning. I knew a new song was forming, and as much as I tried to sneak a peek into the notebook, he always slid it away. He told me if he couldn’t see the painting, then I couldn’t hear the song he was working on. He and Bennett were working on a meeting with therecord label, each wanting to give them something new. FaceTime calls with Bennett became a common occurrence as they worked through the rhythm and words. When he would say the lyrics out loud, he would leave the cabin altogether.
Meanwhile, I would paint. My painting was coming together better than I anticipated. A subject I had never tried to paint before came to life on the canvas as I worked. Imposter syndrome would always sneak in sometimes and I would tell myself my paintings were never as good as those in museums—that I would never be able to catch the attention of anyone. But as the brush moved along the pencil lines, that feeling never once occurred. It made me feel as if I should have waited to enter this into the festival, but then again, this one wasn't for me.
Each night I would cover the painting and join Elliot on the couch. I would make us hot chocolate and he would start a fire. I would drape my legs over his and he would rub his hands up and down my legs. We talked, we laughed, and we got to know each other. Once his mug was empty, he would lean in and kiss me. Those same kisses that made my heart flutter. The ones that sent sparks up my spine. The ones I never wanted to stop. He was beginning to get more adventurous with his hands, his fingers sliding up under my shirt, his calloused fingers rough, yet, so soft at the same time.
The morning of the arts fest, my stomach was in absolute knots. I had to be at the Arts Center to be presented with my painting. I had picked a black dress with my white heels, and planned to curl my hair and wear a black headband. I had to look sophisticated. Sophisticated enough that I could pass for a Park City artist.
My dress was hanging on the closet door with my heels underneath it and I glared at them from my bed. I knew I should get up, make a pot of coffee, take a shower . . . seize the day . . . but, hell, the knots in my stomach made me want to puke.
