Total pages in book: 133
Estimated words: 122440 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 612(@200wpm)___ 490(@250wpm)___ 408(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 122440 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 612(@200wpm)___ 490(@250wpm)___ 408(@300wpm)
“You can use the doggie door, Misha,” she reminded as she opened the door for her dog. “You’re such a princess. Every other dog in the world uses a doggie door, but not you. You want me to wait on you.”
“And you do.” The male voice was low and held a velvety amusement very much at Harlow’s expense.
She nearly jumped out of her skin. Misha hadn’t even alerted. She glared at the little beagle. “For all you know, he could have been a serial killer.”
“She knows me,” Wilder said, stepping out of the shadows right into her space. “She’s a smart girl. She isn’t going to waste energy barking like a crazy dog. That’s beneath her. Far too much dignity.”
Harlow laughed. “She’s a beagle. I’m not sure beagles have tremendous dignity. She’s a bit of a clown. What in the world are you doing here?”
“Doc told me I needed more exercise, said walking would be good for me. I wanted to walk this evening with you, but you didn’t come back. I figured you must have found something exciting in that camera of yours and hoped you’d let me see.”
Harlow liked that he wanted to see what she was doing. Photography was a huge part of who she was. Her friends were always interested in what she did, but none of them had ever come to her home specifically to see her process, even knowing she was very, very excited about a few of the photos she’d taken.
She stepped back to allow Wilder inside. Her studio was very spacious with all the glass, high ceilings and square footage, yet Wilder somehow managed to take up an inordinate amount of space. Or maybe she just couldn’t breathe properly because he was looking around her studio, taking everything in. Taking her in. Seeing her. This place was all about who she was. What she loved. She hadn’t realized how vulnerable she would feel.
The studio was where she was fully herself. She didn’t put on a mask. Everything in the studio was her. Wilder waited for her invitation to be shown around, but he took in everything with his eyes. She knew him well enough to know he saw everything. No detail would be missed, and once it was in Wilder’s memories, it was burned there for all time.
“Harlow?” He stepped close to her, both hands cupping her face, tilting her head up so she had little choice but to look at him. “I didn’t mean to put you on the spot. If you’re not comfortable with me being in your studio, I can sit outside and wait for you. I’m not in a hurry, and you can take all the time you need or want to work.”
He was doing it again, disarming her. Stripping her of her hard-won armor. He did it so easily with that gentle, low tone, the intensity of his eyes and the mesmerizing sweep of his thumb against her bare skin. Her body wanted to trust him. Her mind…
She’d lived her entire childhood with nothing but lies. She was an observer and had paid close attention to everything said or done in her household. In the campaign offices. The illusion of the perfect family had held for the public. No one ever seemed to notice the bruises on a small child, or they dismissed them, saying how active she was.
No one working in the household ever protested the strict calorie-counting meals doled out carefully to a small child or wondered why private instructors came daily to insist she learn everything from gymnastics to yoga, practicing for hours on end to maintain the ideal body weight. Most people thought that little girl was privileged and perhaps even envied her for the various skills she acquired.
Harlow found she couldn’t look away from Wilder’s compelling gaze. He wanted truth between them. Well, she could give him that much. “I used to look at the photographers who spent so much time with us, documenting everything my parents wanted them to see. The camera shouldn’t lie if you’re good at your job, but somehow none of them noticed anything wrong.”
His thumb might drive her mad with those soothing, caressing strokes on her skin. It felt too much like genuine caring. When her mother would finally come into her room hours after her father’s tirade, she would gather Harlow into her arms and murmur how she had to learn to behave in public, how lucky she was that her parents loved her so much and gave her so much, but when small things were asked of her, she had to get it right. The tone was always gentle, sounding like genuine caring, as if she were attempting to soothe Harlow, but the words struck like lances. Her father was never wrong for hitting her or calling her names. She was the one at fault because she didn’t live up to his expectations.