Total pages in book: 105
Estimated words: 98755 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 494(@200wpm)___ 395(@250wpm)___ 329(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98755 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 494(@200wpm)___ 395(@250wpm)___ 329(@300wpm)
If she found out I was seeing Braxton, she would’ve told my father. I really don’t want to deal with that situation, especially when I have no idea how I feel about it myself.
Have I been avoiding him again? Yes. Absolutely. I ran so fast out of his apartment, and I’ve been in a spiral ever since.
Accepting my feelings for Braxton is one thing, but knowing what to do with them is a completely separate matter. Because I can’t act on them, can I? There are so many other things I should be focusing on. And yet, he consumes my thoughts night and day. He literally haunts me not only in my waking hours but also when I sleep. I’m pretty sure I’m going crazy. That’s the only answer to all of this.
As I get out of the car at midday, preparing myself for a full evening in the studio, I take a sip of my black coffee. I’ve hardly been able to sleep these past three nights, analyzing all of the different outcomes, but they keep coming to the same end. There can’t be a relationship between me and Braxton. Not the type I might want. And I think I want to be with Braxton. The thought of any other woman with him curdles my stomach and brings an immediate rage that overrides clear thinking.
But he’s a detective. The last person I can introduce to my family. And I can’t imagine any sane man throwing his career away for me. No matter how great I am. He’d have to fall from grace for me, and even then, my family would never trust him. Even if I made them vow not to touch him, they’d find a way to permanently remove him from my life. This will only end in bloodshed. He’s not mine to have. So doesn’t it make sense for me to be the one to pull the trigger?
I take another sip of my coffee as the elevator stops on the floor for my studio. When the doors open, I can’t say I’m entirely surprised to see him waiting for me, but that feeling of unease swirls in the pit of my stomach. It makes it hard to swallow my coffee. I know I’ve come to the same conclusion for us over and over again, but it doesn’t make me any less affected by the outcome because I do want him, even when I pretend I don’t.
I grip my bag as I walk closer to the door. He reaches out and takes the bag from my hand, as if it’s something he’s done many times. These moments of time we steal together are as natural as they come, even though every time, it risks something for both of us.
“No pancakes this week?” he asks. He and I both know why I haven’t been to the café lately—because I’m avoiding him.
I push my glasses up my nose and shake my head as I unlock the door. He follows behind me, scanning the room. It’s a mess. The counters are covered in clay and pieces that I have discarded. I don’t really like to clean up too much because I find the chaotic mess somewhat of a comfort. I have a cleaner come in once a month, though. I just like it when it feels busy, like a room full of treasures. He picks up a piece of clay, inspects it, and then puts it back on the counter as he looks at me. “Are you working?” he asks.
I remove my coat and hang it on the back of the door, revealing my overalls. “Yes.” Obviously. That’s why I come here. It goes without saying, but he doesn’t care if he imposes here, and, surprisingly, he’s one of only a few I don’t mind being in my space. “Aren’t you working today?”
The dull topic is a way for us to dance around the questions and answers we really want. The ones hovering over us like a scythe that neither of us dare to touch yet. Because what conclusion has he come to? Does he even like me? What if it’s all gone to my head? Fuck. What if I’m being conceited? If that’s the case, I’ve definitely spent far too much time around Hawke.
“Day off, actually,” he says, which means very little to him since he works even when he’s not working. I suppose he and I are similar in that regard. “Do you want me to leave?”
I glance up at him then. He’s left my bag beside the door and moved deeper into the studio. It feels as if he swallows the space around him. This space of mine, this sanctuary. It doesn’t look so bad on him.
“You can stay,” I answer quietly. I mean, he’s already here, and there’s an ease he brings with him, as much as it unsettles me that we could be caught.