Total pages in book: 113
Estimated words: 104820 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 524(@200wpm)___ 419(@250wpm)___ 349(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 104820 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 524(@200wpm)___ 419(@250wpm)___ 349(@300wpm)
Big-time falling.
As they walked in step, she shivered.
“You’re cold.” He stopped and slipped off his navy sweater. “The wind off the water can really kick up at this time of evening.”
He was right—the wind was stronger, and she was a little cold. But that wasn’t why she’d shivered. It had come more from the thrill of having spent the perfect day with the perfect man, but she wasn’t about to admit to that.
She laughed when he asked her to hold up her arms so he could slip the sweater over her head. “You’re getting a taste of what it’s like to be a caregiver,” she said as he gently pulled the sweater down over her body.
With a slow and sweet sweeping motion, Arch smoothed her hair back from her face where it had become staticky from the fabric. “The only person I want to take care of is you,” he said.
His voice was deep and gruff with emotion. And, to her surprise, she believed him.
She believed him because she felt exactly what he was feeling—that they were made to take care of each other.
When they reached the bench, she instinctively sat close to Arch so that her right thigh touched his left. Although they weren’t far from the hustle and bustle of the promenade, it felt like they were the only two people in the world. Just them, the sound of the sea, and the breeze that ruffled Arch’s hair.
She gazed out at the horizon, where white sailboats coming into harbor bobbed on the waves, and took a deep breath. “There’s something I want to tell you about me.” She felt him grow instantly alert beside her, though he didn’t say a word. Previously, she hadn’t been sure that she could tell him something so personal, but she knew she had to if they had any hope of a future together.
She took a deep breath and blurted, “I paint.”
He didn’t miss a beat, just turned his head so he was looking at her profile. “I know.”
She sat back, more than a little stunned. “You know?” When he nodded, she said, “Then why didn’t you say something?”
He looked so sincere as he said, “Because it was clearly something very personal to you. Of course, I hoped you’d tell me about your art at some point, and yes, there’s been a big part of me that felt like I was lying to you by omission. A couple of times, I could barely keep from telling you that I knew. But I couldn’t shake off the sense that saying something too early might make you uncomfortable. So in the end, I justified it by telling myself that you’d tell me more about yourself and your passions when the time was right.” He smiled. “You don’t know how happy I am that right now is clearly that moment.”
Though he had kept the knowledge of her painting to himself, how could she be mad at him for that? It was clear that he had only been trying to give her the space she needed to tell him something she kept secret from everyone else.
“Thank you for explaining that,” she said, meaning every word. “It helps me understand why you waited to tell me that you already knew I was painting in the afternoons.” She paused. “And if I’m being totally honest, had you told me earlier, I don’t know that I would have reacted well to your finding out my secret passion.”
He looked utterly relieved that she wasn’t angry with him. “I do have a question for you, though,” he said. When she nodded for him to go ahead, he said, “Why did you feel you needed to hide it from me?”
She looked down at their clasped hands. “Because it’s just a silly hobby. A time-wasting indulgence.”
When she looked up into his face, he was frowning. “Why would you say that? Especially when it’s clearly something you’re very passionate about.”
His calm and encouraging responses made her feel bold enough to answer his question by revealing yet another part of her life that she’d kept secret from everyone.
“My husband—he used to belittle me. He thought I had good taste in other people’s art, but I couldn’t transfer it to my own work. He said it was no good. Amateurish.” She shook her head at the memories of all the times he’d said such cruel things, the old sense of shame flooding her. “But even though I had no encouragement, I couldn’t stop.” She hesitated. “I think it’s how I make sense of the world. When I’m painting, it’s like I go somewhere else and inhabit a new reality, one where everything seems so much clearer.”
She paused again, surprised at how open she was being—and how good it felt, even if part of her felt foolish admitting so much. She turned to Arch and found his expression rapt.