Total pages in book: 140
Estimated words: 138003 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 690(@200wpm)___ 552(@250wpm)___ 460(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 138003 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 690(@200wpm)___ 552(@250wpm)___ 460(@300wpm)
My sister eyes me like I’m selling her a line.
I stifle a sigh. Every now and again, I tell the absolute truth about my feelings, but no one seems to realize. Or care. Fill in the blanks according to the relationship.
I know Primrose cares. We might have a prickly relationship on the outside, but inside, there’s love.
But for now, we both turn to the sound of masculine footsteps.
“Am I disturbing anything?” Raif cants his head to one side, his expression warm and his dark eyes twinkling. The bristles on his cheeks give him a slightly piratical air, as well as making his lips pop.
Maybe I should cultivate a beard rather than buy more expensive lipstick.
“No, nothing.” No need to air my frailties any more than I have.
“I’m told that, traditionally, cheap chardonnay is the beverage of choice, but I thought we might toast to the success of your evening with something a little more special,” he says, producing a bottle of champagne from behind his back.
“I knew there was a reason I married you,” I say, tamping back my delight and ignoring all the suggestions and connotations. The way he’s looking at me, the bottle of vintage champagne that’s the same brand as we’d had on our wedding day. Out on the terrace.
“I hope there was more than one reason,” he says in that sultry tone of his.
“There might be one or two things that I’m quite fond of.”
“Only one or two?”
“People, enough with the sexy voices, please.”
“Did you say I have a sexy voice?”
“Eww. Just fucking eww.”
“I’m going to say a few more if Raif doesn’t get the champagne open quickly.”
“Never let it be said I leave a lady waiting.”
“Urgh!” Prim casts her eyes to the ceiling. “Am I going to have to be drunk before I turn up to my first dinner invitation? If this is the way you are with an audience, I don’t even want to think about what poor Daisy puts up with.”
“I’ll keep it strictly PG,” Raif says, peeling the foil from the bottle.
“I’ll get glasses,” she says, making for the area we’ve set up for catering.
“Ready for your big night?” Raif asks, beginning to twist the bottle from the cork.
“You know it,” I say, laying my bravado as thick as teenage beauty influencer applies their foundation. I’m more anxious under my skin than I am above it. I sometimes wonder where I got into the habit of hiding this part of me.
No need to dwell, though. And I have no intention of sharing.
“Did I tell you how beautiful you look tonight?”
“I don’t believe you did.”
“Well, you do.” His gaze falls over me. “You’re so fucking sexy.”
“And capable.”
“Very capable.”
“Clever. And accomplished.”
“Also, very true. Not yet twenty-five and already the owner of a prestigious art gallery.”
“Don’t overdo it. I like my flattery to be believable.”
“Then believe this, you are so much more than I bargained for, Lavender Whittington-Deveraux.”
I smile. Really smile. “You are a sweet talker.” Stepping closer, I lay my hand on his cheek, the bristles tickling my palm.
“There is no end to my mouth’s capabilities.”
“Eww! Again!”
“Sorry, Primrose.” Though he doesn’t sound it.
“Come on, let’s get this bottle open before the hordes descend and confuse us with a fancy Mayfair gallery.”
28
RAIF
Knicker flashes require the purchase of at least three full-priced artworks…
I study the bust of a woman—a piece of modern statuary—not an actual woman.
Women other than Lavender seem to hold little interest for me lately.
Given the promise I made on the terrace and the rewards I reaped beyond the flash of her underwear, I should buy every piece in tonight’s exhibition.
I’m not sure Lavender would appreciate it at this point. I’ll buy what’s left to make the night a financial success. But for now, I’ll just keep out of the way.
I dip to examine the figure better. It’s not bronze, though it has a similar patina. Something about it captures my attention.
Wa/orrier. reads the exhibit label. A play on Warrior/worrier. The woman looks like she could be both. I note the artist’s name as T. Marius Homeland.
“It’s good, isn’t it?” Primrose appears next to me. Her hair pulled back into a chic chignon makes her look older. Her white shirt and dark-colored skirt give out corporate vibes.
“It’s still for sale?” I guess. There’s nothing noted on the neatly typed card.
“Yeah.” Primrose wrinkles her nose. “Most of the pieces are. People are saying all the right things, all that arty bollocks those kind of people speak, but in monetary terms, the night isn’t going as well as Lavender hoped.”
“Oh, really?”
“More like, oh shit. She’ll be so upset, and you know what that means. Or maybe you don’t,” she adds, eyeing me. “She’ll turn into a stroppy cow because that’s what she does when she’s upset. Me, I just cry and let it all out. Lavender prefers to bottle it. Make a vintage of it. At least, until it explodes.”