Page 14 of Written with You (The Regret Duet 2)
Rosalee was gorgeous, but this… This was stunning.
“How much?” I asked as I walked over to it, fighting the urge to trace the curve of my daughter’s jaw because I was fearful I’d mess it up.
She moved a cup filled with paintbrushes to the table on the other side of the room. “Oh, it’s not for sale.”
“Bullshit. Everything’s for sale.”
“Not that one. Though I took some really cute pictures at her awards ceremony. If you’re nice, I might be willing to make you an R.K. Banks of one of those.”
I didn’t need it to be an R.K. Banks original.
And I didn’t want one of the others.
I wanted this one.
“Five hundred thousand dollars.”
She crossed her arms over her chest, and her lips tipped up in a crooked smile. “It’s not for sale, Caven.”
“Six hundred.”
“Not for sale.”
“Eight.”
“Not for sale.”
“A million dollars. Cash. I’ll have it wired to you first thing in the morning.”
She laughed and shook her head. “Not. For. Sale.”
And then I made her the one offer I knew for certain she would never be able to refuse. “Mondays.”
Her smile fell, and her back shot straight. “What?”
“Mondays. You come over. No art. Just hang out. Eat dinner. Paint her nails. Chase her around the backyard. Whatever the hell you want to do. I get that painting and you get Mondays.”
She pursed her lips and stared at me. I might not have known her well. But I knew that look. She wasn’t considering whether or not to accept my offer; she was trying to figure out how to keep herself from bursting into tears when she did.
Honestly, it was wrong of me to use more time with Rosalee to obtain the painting. Though I’m not too proud to admit that it was a wholly selfish offer. I knew without a shadow of a doubt she was going to accept. Thus earning me the painting and more time with her.
I prowled toward her. “Do we have a deal?”
She tilted her head to the side and extended a hand my way. “Shake on it. You get that painting and I get Mondays.”
I didn’t back away as I took her hand, which made for an awkward shake in the small space between us.
She sucked in a sharp breath and then finally grinned. “Would you like to take it with you tonight, or shall I have it delivered after it’s framed?”
“Depends. Is the frame going to be an atrocious tropical color like the ones in your living room?”
She narrowed her eyes. “I’m surprised you noticed. As a side note, I’d like to advise you to never invest in art again.”
“Oh, I don’t know. I think I got a pretty good deal.”
“No, what you got was a painting that I messed up and was using as scrap to practice the technique for the highlights I used in her hair.” Pointing to the wall behind her, she finished with, “That was what I wanted to show you.”
And I’d be damned. It was the same picture. The same strokes and colors, but everything was better. Rosalee’s eyes were brighter, and her vibrant curls blended together in a waterfall of color. Even the crop of the photo was better, slightly off center so her smile was the main focal point.
My mouth fell open and she let out a loud giggle.
“Before you say a word, I tried to warn you about it not being for sale. But you insisted and shook on it and everything. So, now, I have Mondays and you have my practice canvas.”
“Hadley,” I rumbled, but she kept right on laughing.
“I’ll get this boxed up for you.”
She didn’t make it to the painting before I bent, put a shoulder to her stomach, and lifted her off her feet.
“Caven!”
I started back to the living room. “You know what? I don’t think I like getting to know non-naked Hadley.”
Her laughter got louder. “But you got a beautiful painting. Truly. All the smears and smudges. It’s my best work yet.”
I slapped her on her ass. “Liar.”
“No, really. The trashmen are going to be devastated when I don’t put it at the curb this week.”
My smile was unrivaled as I deposited her on the couch, the whole thing creaking as I followed her down, my mouth finding hers before my body did.
She opened her legs, allowing my hips to fall through. Then she let out a sigh that erased whatever anger I’d been pretending to carry.
Truth be told, I still got the better end of our deal.
My painting was gorgeous.
And I got her on Mondays.
Fucked up as it was, I’d have happily paid a million dollars for the same outcome.
We made out on that couch until the pizza arrived. Technically, we’d stayed clothed the entire time, but it was far from the get-to-know-you session she’d suggested at the beginning of the night.
By the time I forced myself out her door an hour and a half after I’d arrived, both of our lips were bruised, my face hurt from smiling, and Trent’s pizza was stone cold—just like he deserved.
