Total pages in book: 133
Estimated words: 135799 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 679(@200wpm)___ 543(@250wpm)___ 453(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 135799 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 679(@200wpm)___ 543(@250wpm)___ 453(@300wpm)
“I think the paintings I’ve been buying off Harriet . . . are Kate’s.”
He chuckles. “You’re delusional. And correct, that is ridiculous.”
“Can you ask her?”
“What do you mean?”
“Without telling Kate why, ask her if she painted these pictures.”
“Don’t you think that if Kate was a famous artist, she would at least know?”
“Can you just do it? What’s your number? I’m sending you the pictures now.”
He finds his phone and saves the images I send him. “What will I ask her?”
“Um.” I try to think. “Just say you found these pictures; does she know who painted them.”
Brad shrugs and texts Kate.
Hey, I found these paintings in a charity shop.
They looked familiar, are they yours?
My heart is hammering hard and I pace. “What did she say?”
“No answer yet.”
I close my eyes and walk back and forth as my hands run through my hair.
“She’s typing, the dots are moving.” He holds his phone out and we both stare at it, waiting for the answer.
Now, there’s a blast from the past.
Yeah, they’re mine. I painted them years ago.
God knows why Mum insisted on keeping them.
I can’t believe Elanor thought someone would actually want them.
Lol, hilarious.
The air leaves my lungs and I grip the wall to steady myself.
Brad drops to sit on the couch and we stare at each other, eyes wide.
“So this means . . .” Brad frowns as he connects the dots.
“It was always Kate,” I whisper. “Of course it was.”
KATE
I wait on the porch and look up the road. “Where is he?” I glance at my watch. Richard didn’t bring me a letter yesterday . . . and he’s late today.
I didn’t realize how much Elliot’s letters brighten my day . . . or how much they mean.
I twist my hands in my lap as I wait. “Come on,” I whisper. “Where are you?”
What if he’s met someone else?
Regret fills me that I haven’t responded to him at all. I should have said something, if even only a thank you. What must he think with no correspondence back?
A car comes around the corner and I hold my breath—it’s a different car.
Red.
It’s not Richard. My shoulders slump with deflation.
The car pulls up to a halt outside my place and I frown as I watch. Who is it?
Elliot gets out of the backseat and my breath catches.
What?
He looks up and his eyes find mine . . . Oh.
Seeing him in the flesh opens old wounds and an unexpected rush of emotion sweeps through me. My eyes well with tears.
Glued to the floor, I stand and watch him as he leans in and takes out an overnight bag and pays the driver, and I want to run to him . . . and kiss him and tell him everything.
But my feet are set in concrete, frozen with fear. The hurt he caused me, magnified all over again. I thought my disappointment and anger were over—maybe not.
He stands on the curb with his bag in his hand, staring up at me, and as the car drives off, he gives me a soft smile.
And with my heart in my throat, I smile.
Oh . . . I’ve missed him so.
He slowly walks up the steps and I walk down them and we meet in the middle.
“Hi,” he whispers.
“Hi.”
“I came to bring you home.” His eyes hold mine as he swallows a lump in his throat.
He’s nervous.
My eyes well with tears, because suddenly everything is crystal clear: he is my home.
Elliot Casanova Miles is the great love of my life, and I don’t know how it worked out that way, but I honestly don’t think I can go on without him. I wouldn’t want to.
“Took your time.”
A slow, sexy smile crosses his face, and he wraps me in his arms and holds me tight.
And he squeezes me and I melt into him as our lips touch.
“Don’t ever fucking leave me again,” he whispers.
“Don’t make me.”
He kisses me, his tongue slowly sliding between my lips as he holds my face in his hands and, oh . . . the way he kisses. I had nearly forgotten.
Elliot Miles kisses from his soul.
Every chink in his armor, every weakness he keeps inside, all the passion in the world. I can feel it all. And fuck, do I love it.
We kiss again and he pulls me toward him, hugs me tight in his arms as the horror we’ve been through becomes too much.
The emotion between us . . . too much.
Sacred.
“We need to talk,” he says as he takes my hand and leads me up the steps.
“I know.”
His eyes flick back to me as if questioning my statement.
Huh, what was that look?
I frown as uneasiness runs through me: he’s here to tell me something.
There’s more.
Did he sleep with his artist?
My heart begins to race as I brace myself. Somehow, I don’t think our reunion is going to stay happy.