Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 77718 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 389(@200wpm)___ 311(@250wpm)___ 259(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77718 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 389(@200wpm)___ 311(@250wpm)___ 259(@300wpm)
Surprisingly, his expression doesn’t change. “Shit,” he says. “But you’re doing okay now?”
“Yeah.” I smile. It’s a little forced because the reality is, I’m not doing great. I have this huge hole in my chest where Ares used to be. “I’m eight months sober.”
“That’s great,” he says, smiling. “My older brother has been to rehab a few times. Opiate addiction,” he explains.
“Is he okay now?” I ask sympathetically because I know it’s hard for those who deal with the addiction, but it’s equally as hard for those people’s loved ones who have to watch them destroy themselves.
“He’s four months clean at the moment. But my mom and I have been down this road with him before. So, we’re just hoping it sticks this time.”
I nod, understanding.
“So, what are you doing for work at the moment?” he asks, sipping his coffee.
“I’m working for my dad.”
“He coaches the Giants, right?”
“Yeah. I’m currently an assistant to the team.”
“Sounds good.”
“Not really.” I shake my head. The guy I love is the quarterback, and we’re no longer together because he doesn’t trust me. “I mean, it’s a job. But it’s not what I want to do with my life.”
“You want to paint?”
“Yeah…I mean, even just working back in a gallery would be amazing, but after the DUI, I can’t get anyone to hire me.”
“My mom has a gallery, you know.”
“Wow. Really?”
“Yeah. It’s fairly new. She opened it eighteen months ago, but it’s doing well, and she is always keen to showcase new talent. And she doesn’t discriminate against people with former addictions.” He grins, and I smile. “I can set you up with a meeting with her, show her your portfolio, if you’d be interested?”
“Interested? Are you nuts?” I laugh. “It’s taking everything to keep me in my seat right now and not grab you and hug the hell out of you.”
He laughs. “So, should I take that as a yes?”
I nod manically. “You can take that as a massively huge yes.”
It’s a bright, sunny afternoon as I walk along the sidewalk, heading for Nuu Fine Art, my heavy portfolio bag carrying the two paintings I’ve brought with me to show Dec’s mom, Moira Wiseman.
After coffee with Dec yesterday, we exchanged numbers and went our separate ways. I didn’t expect to hear from him right away, but he texted me later that day and said his mom would see me today.
Cue my freak out.
I’m dressed in a black shirtdress that sits just above my knees and has a cute bow that ties at the neck. I’ve got cute beige-colored high-heeled sandals on my feet. Makeup is natural, hair down and wavy.
I want to make a good impression.
I reach the building and stop outside to stare up at it.
It’s a metal-and-glass-front building. Light and airy. Some of the works are visible from the window. Paintings and sculptures.
Taking a deep breath, I push the door open and walk inside. Soft music is playing in the background. I walk up to the reception desk.
A pretty girl around my age with poker-straight, shoulder-length blonde hair and striking blue eyes—which, for a moment, remind me of Ares—smiles at me. “Hi, can I help you?” she asks.
“Yes. Hi. I’m here to see Moira Wiseman. My name is Arianna Petrelli. I have an appointment.”
“Of course.” She gives me a friendly smile. “Moira’s expecting you. Follow me.”
She comes out from around the reception desk and leads me through the gallery, which is a hell of a lot bigger than I was expecting. She opens a door, taking me into the back area, which has countless paintings stacked up—some wrapped, some not. And maybe twenty varying sculptures are all lined up, either waiting for delivery to a customer or ready to go out for display, I’m guessing.
She reaches a door, knocks once, and opens it. “Moira, Arianna Petrelli is here to see you.”
Moira Wiseman looks to be in her early fifties. She has short black hair and a strikingly attractive face.
She stands from her chair and comes around the desk, holding her hand out to shake mine. “Arianna, it’s so good to meet you. Declan has told me all about you.”
I don’t worry or panic about what she knows about me because her older son has his struggles, too, and Dec told me that she doesn’t judge a person. Only their work.
I slip my hand into hers and give it a firm but friendly shake, clutching my portfolio bag containing some of my paintings.
“It’s good to meet you, too,” I tell her.
“Would you like something to drink?” she asks me. “Coffee?”
“Coffee’s great,” I tell her.
“Ebony, could you bring us some coffee, please?” Moira addresses the girl from reception.
“Of course.”
She closes the door, and Moira tells me to take a seat.
I lower my bag to the floor, leaning it against the chair beside me.
God, I’m so nervous that my insides are shaking, but I’m trying to exude calmness on the outside. I’m not sure if I’m pulling it off though.