Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 82698 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 413(@200wpm)___ 331(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82698 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 413(@200wpm)___ 331(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
Finally, Dylan rose. “Holy heck, man, I’m drained.” He mock-glared at Clay. “You took every idea right out of my head and there’s nothing left.”
Clay clapped his shoulder. “Get some rest.”
Then, before she registered that he was moving, Dylan hugged her. “Thanks.”
She cupped his face. “You did really good today.”
He laughed. Here was the Dylan of yesterday instead of the Dylan of this morning who’d blown through his studio, tearing up all his hard work.
He stepped back. “Are you coming to the birthday party on Sunday?”
“Is it your birthday?” She’d thought that was three months away.
Dylan shook his head, his hair flying.
“It’s a Maverick party for all the kids,” Clay explained. “Paige and Evan’s twins are a year old, and Jorge and Noah are turning eight. We’re holding a party at Dane’s Napa resort.” A smile, as beautiful as the sun shining down on a new day, spread across his face. “The entire Maverick family, including all the Harringtons, will be there.” He smacked his forehead. “Why didn’t I think of that? Of course you’re invited.”
Her heart seemed to seize in her chest. This wasn’t a business meeting or takeout dinners over talks about San Holo’s work. This wasn’t even them in bed.
This was her meeting his family.
“You gotta come.” Then Dylan slapped Clay’s back. “Okay, I gotta crash.” He stomped across the loft floor and slammed the door behind him.
In the sudden quiet, Clay said, “Please. Come with us.”
Oh no. She was falling for him. She loved what he’d done with Dylan. She admired his idealism and how he took care of his artists and his friends. She felt more for him than she would for a man she’d simply fallen into bed with.
Yet she’d been lying her butt off to him the entire time.
She couldn’t have a real relationship with Clay because it would mean telling him she was San Holo. He’d never forgive her for holding back the truth. In fact, she’d never have a real relationship with anyone if the only person she trusted with the truth was Adrian.
She was lying to a man she was falling for. Lying to Dylan, who badly wanted to meet her alter ego.
Guilt welled up from the pit of her stomach and swallowed her entire soul.
Clay was still waiting for an answer about the party. “Everyone would love to meet you. I told them at the family mastermind that you’re the one who got me to see the truth.” He laughed. As if he didn’t have a care in the world. “They want to meet the woman who actually made me change my mind about something.”
Her thoughts whirring, she said numbly, “Sure. That would be great.” She had three days to think of an excuse.
Even as he reached for her, she circled around the coffee table until she was backing toward the door. “I had a really draining day with San.” And with her guilt. “Would you mind terribly if I went back to my place? I just need to crash.” She used Dylan’s words.
Confusion washed over Clay’s face, his brows knitting in a frown. “But—”
She held out her hand in a plea. “I’ll see you tomorrow. I promise.”
As she fled, she asked herself how she could make any promises to him at all. Because she’d built a web of lies she didn’t know how to tear down.
San Holo painted in near darkness, only one small lamp lit in the studio. But Saskia couldn’t bear to look at herself in the long cheval mirror she used for self-portraits. Not that anyone would have recognized her from any of those paintings.
The lies ate her up from the inside out. She’d seen the hurt in Clay’s eyes when she’d left. Clearly, she’d blindsided him.
But if she’d stayed, they would have made love. She simply couldn’t stomach being intimate with him again while she fed him lies. Not when it felt like so much more than just sex. She craved his touch, but her lies and her guilt would crush her right there in his bed.
She wanted to tell him. She would never feel clean on the inside if she didn’t. She couldn’t make love with him because he’d want to know why tears came to her eyes afterward. But how could she tell him, knowing he’d never forgive her?
She studied her work, all blacks and browns and streaks of gray. Dark and ugly, reflecting the dark of her soul, the guilt of her lies. She grabbed a can of black spray paint, obliterating the entire canvas.
Pacing back and forth, she wore down the studio’s hardwood floor. Then she threw herself into a chair, stared out the window at a streetlight. Repeated the actions—pacing, staring, flinging herself into that chair.
Fog rolled in, muting the streetlight. Muting her whole being.
She wasn’t sure she could even paint again. All her lies would steal her talent. Steal San Holo from her.