Page 41 of Bargaining

A fancy-looking coffee machine sat near the sink. There were little boxes of tea bags and snacks. I picked up a packet of Wagon Wheels. These had been my go-to treat as a kid. I’d been addicted to them. Had Cole remembered? Now I had my own swimming pool and tennis court and Estonian igloo sauna and art studio? This was too much. A rush of emotion overwhelmed me and I threw my arms around his neck.

“Thank you.”

He stiffened and held perfectly still. “You’re welcome. I hope you’ll be happy here.”

Awkwardly, I disengaged from him. His aloof expression made a twinge pull at my chest. He’d made no attempt to return the hug.

He pulled his sleeve up and checked his fancy watch. “I have to get back to the office. Work is intense at the moment. Call my PA if you need anything. The house is fully staffed. You don’t have to lift a finger if you don’t want to. Remember, you can spend anythingyou want on the card. It’s yours.” He pressed a cold metal key into my hand. “Goodbye, Charlotte.”

“When am I going to see you next?”

A line formed between his brows briefly before it disappeared. “When I’ve made the wedding arrangements. Forget about me. There is nothing for you to do here other than relax and enjoy yourself. This was the deal. You marry me, I make your life better.”

Chapter 19

Charlotte

The blank canvas stared me down. My fingers hovered over the pot of fresh brushes, but I didn’t dare pluck one out. I hadn’t had space for art in my life for a long time. Looking after Dad had been demanding, but I couldn’t use it as an excuse. I just hadn’t felt the urge to draw or paint. Not since the shambles that had been art school.

I perched on the stool at the pottery wheel. Birdsong drifted in through the window in the stillness. What was I supposed to do here? My life had changed overnight. Without Dad, I had this space in my heart where he’d been, and an empty expanse of time to fill. I drifted to the enormous tub of clay by the sink. The canvas was too intimidating, but I could at least try to throw a pot. Cole had gone to all this trouble. I had to give something a go.

I lifted the lid and grabbed a mound of wet clay. It would need to be wedged first to get the air out. That’s about as much as I could remember. On the table, I pressed and folded it with my hands, smoothing it. Then, I put the mound on the wheel and began spinning it with my foot on the pedal. The clay slid wet and cold between my palms. Wet earth filled my nose, and I expectedit to trigger all those bad memories of art school—the criticism, the tears, that feeling of never beinggood enough. But my mind fell into a calm, focused fixation.

The repetitive whir of the wheel soothed me. A small cylinder took shape between my fingers. A pencil pot, maybe, or a small plant container – something, anyway. Something I’d created myself from scratch. I stopped the wheel and examined my finished product. Not great, but not terrible either. An achievement, after all these years. A small smile lifted my lips. It was a start.

Spring turned into summer, and I passed a host of sunny days perfecting my technique on the wheel. I settled into a routine, working all day, and stopping only to eat one of Elain’s delicious salads. Lunch was taken alone on the shady steps of the pottery studio, watching the sparrows splashing on the bird table. Late afternoons, I sometimes took a dip in the outdoor pool, followed by dinner in the cozy snug at the back of the house. Most nights, I fell asleep on the couch in front ofDating in the Wild.

At the sink in the studio, I carefully measured out the components needed for a glaze. I’d been experimenting for weeks, trying to find a shade the specific color of Dad’s eyes. The trouble was, it always looked different when fired. The closest I’d got was a muted ocean blue, but I needed something lighter.

I wiped dirty handprints down my apron. Things got messy in the studio. By the end of the day, I always had specks of clay caked into my hair. Cole would have hated it. He was so neat and well groomed. No wonder he’d had to put so many miles between us. He probably couldn’t stand the chaos.

Cole had sent me the odd message to check in since he’d dropped me here, but otherwise I’d heard nothing from him. On impulse, I pulled out my phone and sent him a text.

Do you want to see a dirty picture?

The reply was instantaneous.You have my attention.

I snapped a photo of the studio interior and the glaze-splattered sink and pressed send.

Not what I was expecting.

I tapped the phone against my chin, wondering whether to write more, but my phone buzzed before I could reply.

You’re enjoying the studio, then?

I love it.

Good.

I waited, but there was no further reply.Good? Is that it?It should have been enough, but I couldn’t help myself.

You don’t need me for anything? No fancy parties where I can flirt with rich, handsome men?

Nothing on the immediate horizon. I’ll let you know.

When are we saying I do?

Soon.