Total pages in book: 74
Estimated words: 75195 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 376(@200wpm)___ 301(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75195 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 376(@200wpm)___ 301(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
Damn. This is a like a. . .condo-palace sort of situation.
“Welcome to my home.” Not noticing my shock, Tristan led me forward.
My sandals clicked on the marble floor.
I was immediately struck by the sheer elegance of the space. The air smelled faintly of expensive cologne. Soft, ambient classical music filled the massive room that we entered.
The polished marble floors reflected the golden light that poured in through the floor-to-ceiling windows, giving the entire space a warm, inviting glow. I couldn’t help but marvel at the breathtaking view of Paradise City as I walked further inside.
This is just. . .so. . .spectacular.
Entering the living room, I was greeted by a sprawling, plush black sofa that beckoned me to sink into its luxurious embrace.
The space was filled with the gentle crackling of a modern gas fireplace. Its flames cast flickering shadows on the surrounding walls. The soft, muted colors of the room created an atmosphere of relaxation and sophistication.
A grand piano resided in the corner.
However, I couldn’t help but notice this one painting adorning the space above the fire place.
What is this?
I let go of Tristan’s hand and walked over to it.
He didn’t stop me.
Instead, he silently followed me to that wall.
Very. . . interesting?
On the large painting, parts of a beautifully crafted porcelain doll had been broken in several places and spread across the canvas. A large crack ran down the doll’s head. Even more, shards broke away from its arms and legs.
I widened my eyes.
It was such an odd artwork to have in such an elegant living room.
What is going on inside of you, Tristan?
People subconsciously gravitated to certain art pieces based on the inner representation they held. This connection could be linked to their experiences, emotions, or inner desires.
I studied the painting some more.
The whole time Tristan watched me with this intense gaze.
I focused on the delicate fragments scattered under the doll’s body.
He had a. . .fractured childhood. And maybe there was some. . .shattering of innocence.
Sorrow hit me.
Did he know that this image of the beautifully broken doll pointed to his vulnerability and trauma?
Tristan’s voice slipped along my skin. “Are you analyzing me?”
I blinked. “Oh. . .no. I mean. . .”
He smirked.
“Sorry.”
Stop doing that. Pay attention to the date.
I swallowed down my constant curiosity of him. “You have a breathtaking place.”
He stared at me. “Seeing the four elements on the sketchbook’s cover, made your body shiver and your mind go to me?”
I blinked again. “Yes.”
“Due to that, I will be drawing you on the front page this evening.”
I parted my lips. “Really?”
“Yes. I can already tell that you will end up being my muse for this next collection.”
My heart quickened at the thought of being immortalized in his art.
Tristan’s gaze grew intense. “Already, you are inspiring me in ways that no one else ever has.”
My breath hitched.
“Tonight, every stroke of my pencil will be an ode to your beauty.” He leaned in. His lips met mine in a fiery kiss.
I melted into him, my body pressed against his as his hands roamed over me, igniting a flame deep within my core.
Then, he pulled away, his eyes dark with desire. “Let me show you around.”
I caught my breath and walked with him.
Fuck.
He led us away from the broken doll painting. “Of course this is my living room. Here, I host very small gatherings with my even smaller list of friends.”
I gazed back at the room, wondering what a Tristan-friendly gathering looked like. Was he his true self with them? Did he have someone to really open himself up to?
The painting suggested otherwise. It screamed that he kept his emotions bolted up and far away from his thoughts.
Nova. . .stop trying to figure him out. This situation is just supposed to be fun.
I shook my head.
He glanced my way. “Are you okay?”
“Yes. I’m just. . .blown away by your place.”
Next, we entered a hallway that almost blinded me with its bright white marble floors. More huge windows lined the walls, their glass panes looking out over the city.
Tristan spoke, “Back to this sketchbook.”
I chuckled.
Tristan snapped his view to me. “Why are you laughing at me?”
“It’s not really that I am laughing. You are just so. . .intense, and then you keep going back to the gift.”
“Perhaps, it is because I am not used to getting one.”
“No. That’s not it.”
“Why not?”
“You must get gifts.” I rolled my eyes. “I cannot believe that.”
“It is true.”
“Tristan, a woman has given you something wrapped in a bow or put in a box.”
“Never.”
“You are too damn sexy to get me to believe that.”
It was his turn to laugh.
I joined him. “I don’t know if you are trying to play a sympathy card or something, but I know for a fact women have showered you with presents.”
“In my situations with women, we never exchange gifts.”
“What? I get that these situations aren’t relationships, but surely you spent time with a woman on your birthday or for Christmas? Didn’t you get a gift then?”