“You think he’s still a problem.”
“I think he upsets you and that’s a problem I’m going to make go away. Send him to me. I will bust the fucker’s balls. The end.”
My phone rings again. I glance at the number. “It’s just Josh.” I decline the call.
“We’re here for thirty minutes and you’re ignoring your agent who is suddenly ‘just’ Josh. Call him back.”
“You don’t even like him.”
“Irrelevant point, pulled out of a hat, and meant to deflect. He’s a horny piece of shit asshole, but he’s your agent and your career is connected to him.”
“He can wait. Right now, I need to finish this conversation about my uncle, and talk about Kasey’s incentives.”
“Call your agent back.” He rounds the counter, snags my hips and pulls me to him. “The man wants in your pants. I don’t like it, but professionally he’s your agent and your career is taking off. Everything else can wait and will be far more tolerable if he’s delivering good news. Call him back.”
“You’re being obnoxiously pushy.”
“And this is unusual why?”
“Nick—”
“Faith.”
“Nick—”
“Faith. How many times are we doing this? Because I have all weekend, but just in case you’ve missed the obvious. If you won’t fight for your art, I will. That’s what I do. I fight. And you could have already called him back in the time we’ve had this exchange.”
“Fine.” I grab my phone and Nick releases me while I hit re-dial.
Josh picks up on the first ring. “You have another sale from the Chris Merit show, darling.”
I perk up, that ball of tension that had formed when we arrived, eases just a bit. “I do?”
“Yes. You do.”
I turn to Nick and mouth “another sale.” He gives me a wink that does funny things to my belly, while Josh adds, “And thanks to Chris Merit, and your amazing skills, your price is now twenty thousand a painting. After this show, we’re going to make it thirty. You need those paintings shipped out in a week. How are they coming?”
“I’m done. I copied you on the submission form.”
“Done? As of when?”
“Yesterday.”
“And you didn’t run the pieces by me?”
“I knew what I wanted in the show.”
“I need photos. Send me photos. We can still change them out if—”
“No. I’m not sending you photos or changing things out. I told you. I’m painting for me now, not for you or anyone else.”
“As you should be, but come on, Faith. I’ve been in this with you a long time. Send me photos.”
“On the condition that you offer no opinions.”
“Agreed. And get them shipped in advance. Don’t take risks. The details on how to ship, and where to ship, are on your forms.”
“I’ll pull it, and it will be handled.”
“You need to have all pieces there in a week.”
“I know, Josh. Deep breath. I’m not going to let either one of us down on this. And you know what. I’m not sending you photos. I don’t want you to freak yourself, or me, out over my choices. They are made. I stand by them. You need to just see them when I get there.”
“Faith—”
“No, Josh. No. And FYI. I’m working at the Allure Gallery with Chris and Sara Merit now.”
“What about the winery?”
“I have a staff.”
“You’ve always had a staff. That didn’t keep you painting.”
“My situation here has changed.”
“Here. So you’re finally back in Sonoma?”
“Actually. I’m moving to San Francisco. Sonoma will be my weekend home.”
“You’re moving in with Nick Rogers.”
“Yes.”
“I told you—”
“That he’ll fuck me and leave me? I think it’s pretty clear that’s not the case. I’ll get you the new address.”
“Okay. I get it. You want me to back off. And I will, after I say be careful, Faith.”
“I’ve done a lot of that all my life. It’s not worked out so well. I’ll see you in two weeks.” I end the call and face Nick, both of us settling elbows on the island.
“You sold another painting,” he says, warmth in his eyes. “You’re going to be famous before you know it.”
“I don’t want to be famous. It’s about being good enough and as is the case in many careers, money is one of a number of validations. I’ve made eighty thousand in a week, Nick. From my painting. That’s crazy good.”
“Yes,” he agrees. “It is. You told Josh you were moving to San Francisco.”
“Because I am.”
“What about here?”
“What about it?”
He snags my hip and walks me to him. “The minute we arrived here, you tensed up. I don’t like what this place does to you, but we’re both going to like what I’m about to do to you.” He scoops me up and starts walking and doesn’t stop until he’s laying me down on the mattress, and his big body is over mine.
“Now we celebrate. You sold another painting. And we won the war.”
“Are you sure we won?”
“Yes. I’m sure we won.”
“Why do I feel like there is more?”
He rolls us to our sides, facing each other, his leg twined with mine. “There is more. More fucking. More loving. More us.”
“Because you think you—”
He strokes hair from my face. “I know I love you, Faith.”
“You do?”
“I do.”
“I love you, too.”
“Then there’s more. There’s always more. But whatever it is, good or bad, we do it together. Say it.”
“We do it together.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Nick
More.
That word stays with me as I make love to Faith, and even afterward as we dress in casual wear—Faith in jeans and a V-neck blue t-shirt that shows off her necklace, which she keeps touching. I like that she keeps touching it, as if she’s remembering me giving it to her. As if she connects me to her art, and since she loves her art so damn much, I’ll say, paint me, baby, any damn day.
I dress in black jeans, boots, and a black t-shirt that reads: Lawyer—Let’s just save time and assume that I’m right, which gains me the laugh from Faith I’d been looking for. Because her laugh is sexy as fuck and damn addictive. Like the woman herself.
“You are not always right, Nick Rogers,” she proclaims when she sees it, stroking my cheek. “But don’t worry. I’ll catch you when you fall.”
“Don’t I owe you a spanking?”
“It really is starting to seem like you’re all talk and no action,” she replies, twisting away from me and giving me a sexy glance over her shoulder. “Come, my hungry man. I have the world’s most perfect burger for you.”
My man.
She’s learning.
I am her man.
I follow, but not for the burger. For the shake of her curvy and perfect ass in those jeans, and somehow my mind still works enough to ask, “Do you have the instructions for shipping your paintings? We need to arrange to have someone pick them up.”
She pauses at the door, and faces me. “I looked it up when I submitted my final paperwork. They have special arrangements with FedEx and there’s a location right up the road.”