He's quiet for a long moment. “I don't remember.”
“That's sad, James.”
“Maybe.” He looks at me, and there's something vulnerable in his expression that I've never seen before. “What makesyouhappy? Outside of painting.”
I think about it. “Rainy days. The smell of coffee, even though I like it decaf. When a song comes on that I forgot I loved. When someone remembers something small about me.” I glance at him. “Lo mein when I'm stressed.”
His mouth quirks. “I'll keep that in mind.”
“What about you? What used to make you happy, before you forgot how?”
“Poker nights with the guys. Watching old movies. When someone laughs at something I say, even though I'm not trying to be funny.” He pauses. “Watching you paint, when you don't know I'm there.”
My breath catches. “You watch me paint?”
“Sometimes. You're...different when you work. Freer. It's like seeing a version of you that no one else gets to see.”
I don't know what to say to that. The admission feels enormous, like he's handed me something fragile and precious.
“I'll try to be that version more often,” I finally manage.
“Don't.” His voice is soft. “Don't change for me. Just…let me keep watching.”
“Okay.”
22
JAMES
When I try to park my car, I’m blocked by a pile of broken concrete. The pile looks perilously close to collapsing on the car in the parking spot next to it, which is also mine. I only have two cars, which is, according to Ryan, an embarrassingly small number for a billionaire to own.
Personally, I think it’s one car too many. I haven’t driven the Porsche in years, since it gets terrible mileage and isn’t very practical to drive around Toronto. That doesn’t mean I want it crushed under a pile of cement. Frowning, I text Paul a picture. The contractor responds almost immediately.
Paul
Sorry, boss. I’ll send someone to clean that up ASAP.
James
I assume this means the dumbwaiter construction is underway.
Paul
The shaft is being dug out now. The infrastructure will be ready by the time the rock crusher arrives.
The final construction will have to wait until Maura has a few weeks to vacate her studio. I know she can’t be disturbed until after her gallery show is finished. Pass on my congratulations.
I swallow my annoyance. It’s worth having a messy parking spot for a contractor who prioritizes the important things. I can park my car in one of Ryan’s spots instead. Annoying him will be a bonus.
As I wait for the elevator to arrive, I find myself tapping my foot impatiently. I was already running behind schedule, thanks to a late meeting. The unexpected parking obstacles have just added on another five minutes. I’m running dangerously close to missing my appointment with my wife.
One I’m anxious not to miss.
All through my meetings this afternoon, my mind kept wandering to Maura, fantasizing about the sweet taste of her pussy and sinking my cock into her heat. No fucking international contracts could compare to that.
When I finally get to the penthouse, I find Maura perched on a stool at my kitchen island. Papers are scattered across the kitchen island, mostly of rooms filled with smaller boxes—more ideas for how to lay out her show. At least she’s wearing an oversized vintage button-up instead of her paint-splattered jumper. Noise-canceling headphones cover her ears, and her auburn hair is pulled into a messy braid pulled over one shoulder. I’m tempted to surprise her with a kiss at the nape of her neck.
But that’s not what our relationship is.
