Total pages in book: 145
Estimated words: 147733 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 739(@200wpm)___ 591(@250wpm)___ 492(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 147733 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 739(@200wpm)___ 591(@250wpm)___ 492(@300wpm)
She’s complimenting me?
Shit.
An insult from her, I know what to do with. This leaves me at a loss, especially when it’s drifting dangerously close to forbidden waters.
“The paintings have nothing to do with the content for Pinnacle Pointe. There are ten thousand better things to show off in this town than my humble scribbles.”
She stifles a laugh. “What, now you’re Captain Modesty? You’re talented, whatever your other faults. You do realize that could be a valuable part of your brand, right?”
“It isn’t. Deliberately so. My painting isn’t related to my profession. It’s purely personal,” I say, annoyed that I’m growling.
I don’t know if it’s hotter that she called me talented or the way the neckline of her dress melts into the crevice between her palm-sized tits with every breath.
I don’t need to look down to know I’m hard again.
I also can’t look away from her searching green eyes.
“Just to be clear, I counted. Five of your paintings are hanging in my grandmother’s house and the inn next door. There’s even a big one in the lobby, the marina scene.” She clasps her hands and leans forward in her seat.
“And?” I force out.
“And?” she echoes.
“Lottie and I shared a mutual fascination with beautiful landscapes. Nothing more.”
“So did Thomas Kinkade, but his paintings aren’t in her living room.” She throws her hands up and slaps her thighs—one more sound I don’t need. “What’s your deal? Why the big secret?”
“I auction off my work sometimes. Usually anonymously. She bought them at charity events. End of story.” I’m lying my ass off, and it’s so pathetic she sees right through me.
“Gram loved art, but she wasn’t a collector. She also didn’t have a crazy budget to compete with the type of people I’d guess are bidding on your stuff. She would’ve been your biggest fan to wind up with five paintings. I’m not a moron.”
I scoff. “And you find that so unlikely?”
She blinks at me slowly. “You’re really going to play it like this?”
“I’m not playing anything,” I snarl. “You said the paintings were 'decent' yourself. Why is it so impossible to believe anyone would wind up with five?”
“It’s possible, but it wouldn’t be Gram. Not by any normal means.”
What the hell does that mean?
Lottie always admired my work.
I look at her, taking a step closer, wishing I could glare this conversation to its end.
“Your paintings get high bids at these auctions. I did some sleuthing around the web and I caught a few mentions. One of your works sold for over eighty thousand dollars—”
“A commission for an associate.” I sigh. “Again, for charity, but when he wanted a gold-plated dragon peeking out of the Hudson for his new penthouse in New York, it sounded like an interesting project for a good cause. So I obliged.”
She smiles. “You didn’t let me finish. Gram had some money, but not Cromwell art money. It’s not believable she would have went stalking big money auctions in Seattle looking to pay an arm and a leg for your landscapes. The only charity events she went to were always here in Pinnacle Pointe, and usually for reading clubs, gardening, and bird conservation. Somehow, I don’t think she bought your paintings at all.”
Goddamn, am I that obvious?
“Maybe someone at the PTA had a painting or two on hand—”
“Or five.”
“Or five they wanted to part with. Mystery solved. Would you like a Scooby snack to go for Coffee and Cream?” I counter.
She folds her arms, accentuating her chest.
“You’re such an ass. I just wish I knew why.” An exasperated noise rattles her throat.
“And you’re surprisingly relentless over nothing.”
“God, you—will you at least tell me if you painted them for her?” She exhales sharply and slumps in her chair.
“I painted them and they’re hers, aren’t they?”
I know I’ve officially leveled up in the giant dick department, being this evasive. If I knew this was coming, I would’ve come up with a better story.
“Specifically for her?”
“I wouldn’t say that.”
“Some of those scenes are Bee Harbor. Don’t even try to deny it.”
I can and I will.
If only I could tell you why, then this death by stupid fucking questions would end.
“The side that borders my land. Is it a crime to admit I admired your grandmother’s gardens along with everybody else in town? Enough to paint them?”
We lock eyes.
“Why do you care so much, Miss Landers? You act like this painting mystery has the meaning of life.”
“Like any normal human being, I’m curious. The way you’re holding back just makes it worse.”
“Curiosity killed the cat, kitten.”
That wins me a hateful look like she’s about to lunge for my jugular. I try not to laugh.
“One more time. Why are your paintings in my house?”
Goddamn. Relentless.
“If you must know, it was a simple trade between neighbors. Nothing deeper. Now drop it.”
“It’s my grandma and my house. I’m not letting you off easy.” She pops out of her chair, takes one step toward me, and stops. “What trade? She got five paintings and you got what?”