Total pages in book: 71
Estimated words: 69877 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 349(@200wpm)___ 280(@250wpm)___ 233(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 69877 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 349(@200wpm)___ 280(@250wpm)___ 233(@300wpm)
I pivot toward what must be his workstation, an enormous wooden table covered in paint and a no-nonsense wooden stool tucked into the shadows, with…
A man sitting on it.
I jump so hard some of my champagne sloshes onto my hand. I shake it off. “Damn it, Archer. What are you doing in here?”
He, too, is holding a flute of champagne, and he takes a small sip before speaking. “Now. Which one of us should be asking that question?”
I flinch because I know he’s exactly right. I’m the one who shouldn’t be in here, and entering without permission was actually a really crappy thing to do. “I’m so sorry. I’m really sorry. And I’m leaving,” I say, backing up slowly. “And sorry again.”
“Randy.”
“Yeah?” I brace for a well-deserved rebuke for my intrusion.
He sighs. “First the roof, now my studio. I must be getting used to your presence, because somehow, I’m not mad.”
I narrow my eyes suspiciously at his champagne flute. “Uh-huh. Exactly how many of those have you had?”
He waggles it. “First glass. Not really a champagne guy.”
Shocker. I study him. “You’re really not upset?”
He shakes his head.
I ease slightly closer. “Why are you in here? You’re hosting a party.”
“No.” He sips more champagne. “Alyssa is hosting a party. At my house. I don’t know half the guest list.”
“I thought she has a place in the city.”
“She does. Tribeca. But no outdoor space, so no view of the”—he motions upward with a disinterested wave—“fireworks.”
“Ah. That makes sense. She’s very pretty,” I say as I begin to wander around the studio. Whether he’s accustomed to me or not, I don’t anticipate another chance to be in here.
“Yes.”
“These are bigger than they look online,” I say, stopping in front of a large canvas that is taller than I am, and apparently his work in progress.
I tilt my head, recognizing the distinct pyramid shape in the foreground instantly. “Paris. This your next series? Daphne’s been wondering.”
He looks startled. And annoyed. “You talk to Daphne about my art?”
“Nope. She talks to me about it. She’s a huge art buff. Apparently, everyone is speculating over your next move.”
“Fantastic,” he mutters.
“Is this where you were when I first moved in here?” I ask, looking back at the canvas. “Paris?”
He nods. “Three months.”
“Three months!” I say in surprise.
“That’s how long it took to get a feel for the tone I wanted. I was in Tokyo for six months for the first series.”
“You always do cities? Travel focused?”
“No. The Tokyo one was unplanned. I went to visit a friend for a week. Felt inspired. Stayed. Painted.”
“Daphne told me it made a huge splash in the art world. That you’d been popular, but this bumped you up to the next level.”
He stands, joining me in front of the canvas to stare down at it. “People like the travel pieces, I guess.”
“Probably because it presents an escape from their current world. Especially when it’s this large, this vibrant. You must feel that when you paint them.”
“Sometimes.”
I look over. “You don’t sound particularly… enraptured.”
He shrugs. “Escaping from your current reality is only desirable when you don’t like your current reality. Tokyo was great, because at the time I was feeling… lost.”
It’s about as emotional an admission as I’ve ever heard from Archer, and even though I’m dying to know if it has to do with his failed engagement, I also know to tread carefully. If I don’t ease open this door into his soul very gently, he’ll slam it shut again.
In fact, instinct tells me to say nothing. To wait.
After a moment, my instincts are rewarded. “I went there after Willow… ended things.” He gives me a wry look. “But you already knew that.”
I shake my head. “All the internet knows is that you two were engaged and that it ended. Not that she ended it. Or why.”
Or that you felt lost afterward.
The very mental image makes me feel like crying.
“I’m not even sure I know why it ended,” he says with a harsh laugh that does little to mask the pain in his voice.
“She didn’t tell you?”
“Oh, she told me,” he says, still staring at the Paris painting, though I don’t think he’s really seeing it. “Her psychic told her we weren’t a match.”
My mouth drops a little. “Her… psychic.”
“Well, Willow called him a spiritual adviser. Whatever you call the bastard, he informed her that the stars or the universe or whatever the hell didn’t want us to be together. It was nine days before the wedding.”
I set my hand on his arm. “Archer. That’s… I don’t even know what that is. Horrible.”
Heartbreaking.
He looks down. “Maybe it ended for the best. Forced me to set up some new rules, and I’m better for it.”
“What rules?”
Archer’s head tips back and he drains the last of his champagne in a single gulp. “No dating anyone who would put the universe’s wishes above her own.”