Page 31 of Mangled Memory
“That works. I’ll leave you to it up here. I’m going to finish up some work. I’ll be in my office if you need me.”
“Christian?” I call to his retreating back as he heads for the hall.
His face is open when he turns back to me. “Yeah, Princess?”
“I’m leaving coffee to you in the morning. I’ll watch but…”
His lips tip in a half-smile. “Will do.”
He turns to leave the room, and I watch in fascination and half-present lust. His ass is a work of art. It’s firm and fills out those trousers like they were cut to fit.
His powerful legs tug against the fabric as he walks. From the back, his shirt tucked into his pants accentuates his lean, powerful waist.
His gait is steady and sure. He could own the world for the confidence he takes in those strides.
No doubt, he could own me too.
The day unfolds as I assume many have. A delicious dinner prepared by Corinne and an extra hour or two of work for Christian.
I take a long luxurious bath and, instead of scrolling socials—which could answer so many burning questions I have—I dig through the studio’s web site. It feels vain or self-congratulatory, but I’m happy with what I see and proud of myself for accomplishing it.
I’ve never been one to be flashy with my talent. I might as well be bragging about eyesight. I don’t sculpt it or paint it, much less create it. I justsee it. The scene unfolds for every eye to see. I just so happen to freeze a frame in time for those who weren’t there.
But these shots weren’t created by an amateur, and they make the viewer feel the environment at the moment of capture.
I’ve made it. And not in terms of money or power or prestige, because, frankly, I have no clue about any of that aside from one write-up inMile Highand that could’ve been purchased, but because I like what I see in the work I’m producing.
I should know, though, about the business side. I need to askChristian or Lauren or both. My fear is that I run the show and that I’ll have to do some forensic accounting shit to figure out the books. God help me if that’s the case. I hate accounting.
Mom always supported a career in the arts. She’s more right-brained and married my dad young. She is a kept woman, but that was before people thought badly of it, back when a woman scored if a man could provide for her. She does social things, does charity work, and manages their home.
I never expected that for my life. Not the charity work part, but the married to someone who makes the money and not have to work part. Notwantto work part.
Which works out since Dad wouldn’t have tolerated me being an artist full time. I have the BS in business administration from CU-Denver to prove it. He’d said, “No daughter of mine’s going to be taken advantage of.” Secretly, though, I suspect he wanted me in the family business and the degree of his choice at a school he required and paid for was his way of greasing the tracks into day-in, day-out misery for me. Stifled creativity, desk job, inside four walls, consistent meetings and persistent chatter—the recipe for sending me out of my mind and straight into a low-grade depression.
But my dad’s a force to be reckoned with, and he insisted. So this University of Colorado graduate can do the accounting audit, even if I don’t want to.
I scroll the shots until the eye strain or the constant blue light is painful and I have to set my phone aside.
I have so many questions. And while I haven’t been awake for two weeks yet, I feel so untethered without answers.
Tomorrow morning on our way into the mountains, the hot air balloons will be lifting off just south of town. We’ll see them just off the horizon as we drive.
Untethered is okay when the journey is quick and safe. Like the books at the gallery… I’m okay with not having those answers today.
But my situation here? Not knowing if I’m financially independent, not knowing if we talked about kids, or if I’m being controlled or gas lighted? That untethered is more like free fall.
And right-brained or no, free fall is terrifying.
“Morning, baby. Do you want to snooze or get out of town early?” The kind voice is accompanied by a kiss to the crown of my head.
I moan at the idea of getting up when I’m warm and safe and cocooned in bed.
I’m lying here atop a warm hard body and freeze when my bare leg runs up and down a solid masculine one.
“I— I didn’t mean to sprawl all over you.” I adjust the arm over his torso and move to pull away, but his around me goes tight to keep me in place.
One swift ab crunch and he presses his lips to mine in a quick peck, before lying back on the pillow. “I’m not complaining.”
