Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 78295 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78295 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
I sit staring at my floor, my appetite gone. I lift the wineglass to my lips, hand trembling.
This is insanity.
Three days? I can’t make an entire master-quality oil painting in three days. Not something even passably good. I need multiple attempts to make sure I get it right. Three days isn’t enough for multiple attempts.
Three days is enough for one fucking moonshot.
“Here you go, dear,” Marina says, refilling my wine.
I shake my head. “I better not. Can’t paint while drunk.”
“Nonsense.” She beams at me. “Picasso did it all the time.”
“You saw the stuff he made, right?”
“Looks can be deceiving, dear. Go on, loosen up a bit. Erick seems scary, but he’s doing what’s best for you.”
“I hope so,” I mumble, but I take the glass, and I head back to the studio, already planning out the next three days of pure hell.
Chapter 12
Hellie
My shoulders ache. My hand cramps. My back feels like a bunch of toddlers have been headbutting me in the spine.
I crack my neck and make the smallest paint mark and curse. It looks like shit. It all looks like shit.
The sun’s rising outside. My eyes are goo. My face is jelly, my brain mush.
On the canvas is not much more than an outline. The shape of the composition is sketched out in pencil. Just rough blocking—I’ll get the details right later—but it’s enough for now.
And in the center is the mother.
That’s how I think of her, the mother.
She’s the focus. Her strange, pale face glowing with light, the pearls around her neck, her hair up in looping curls. There’s a piece of paper in her hand—how did I not see that before? I think she might be reading it, reciting it, or maybe she’s singing along to her daughter’s music. I can’t really tell. I like to imagine it’s both. The father, meanwhile, is nothing more than a head, some hair, shoulders, a sash across his back, and a chair. He’s a lump, a nothing, while the women shine, especially the mother.
I’ve been working on her for hours. She’s coming into focus, the rightness, the shadows, and she looks good. Very good, actually, as close to the original as I can manage given my constraints. Eighty percent there, maybe even better. She has to be perfect, or else the whole thing falls apart. The mother is the painting. The mother is the heart.
I have two-and-a-half days, and I’m barely making any progress.
My mouth is dry. My tongue swollen.
I could scream.
I make another mark on the canvas.
“Hellie.”
I jump. Grunt in surprise. Nearly knock over the whole set-up, which would be freaking terrible. I turn, glaring.
Erick’s standing in the doorway, watching me.
“How long have you been there?”
“A half hour.”
“You’ve been standing there watching me for a half hour?” I look around, bleary-eyed and only half-conscious. “What time is it?”
“Six fifteen in the morning.”
“Oh. Right.” I rub my face and carefully put down my brush. “Are you here to gloat?”
“No. I’m here to make sure you take a shower and get some sleep.”
I laugh once. “Sorry, but no. I don’t have time for any of that.”
“Hellie, if you push yourself like this, you’ll never finish.”
I gesture at my work. “If I don’t push myself past my limits, you’re absolutely right, I won’t finish. I spent all freaking night on this.”
“You’re getting faster.”
“What? No, I’m not.”
“You will after you’ve slept.” He comes into the room wearing a pair of tight joggers and a t-shirt that clings to his biceps. Freaking guy’s gorgeous. Absolutely drop-dead gorgeous. I could cook a pancake on his abs and eat it off his tight ass.
Wow, I really am sleep-deprived.
“Maybe that’s a good idea.” I let him help me up. He’s gentle as he steers me into the hallway. I’m shuffling along, zombie-ish, feeling like my brains are going to seep out of my ears. My head’s a buzzing mess of painting techniques. The mother’s face is seared onto my eyelids.
And there’s Erick. The smell of him, warm and spicy, musky and nice. I like the way he touches me. I like how big he is, how muscular and strong. I like how he only smiles when he really means it, even though he’s always hiding behind that face. His mask and his armor.
He takes me back into my room. I kick off my sandals and lift my shirt over my head, tossing it aside. I reach back and unhook my bra without thinking, staggering to the bed. It only occurs to me after the bra drops to the floor that maybe I shouldn’t start undressing yet, since Erick’s still very much in the room.
I turn to look at him. Which is stupid, since now my tits are on full display. My god, I’m out of my mind and I need to sleep.
His eyes stare at my chest. His mouth is open, his gaze sharp, needy. He licks his lips and lets out this incredibly erotic grunt like I’ve punched him in the guts.