Caught Between Two Billionaires - Skye Warren Page 0,94
to be the one drilling holes in the floors,” I say softly. “That will be you and whoever you’re working with. I only want to save the wall. If I can do that, if I can fix that terrible crack with my own two hands—”
I break off and stare at my hands, the nails cracked from the woodwork I’ve been testing out. My palms rough and calloused from years of painting. These are not delicate hands.
“I have to do something,” I whisper, and it’s like a confessional under that circular desk. “I have to fix something, and I think I might be the one running out of time.”
There’s an enigma among painters. Let’s say an artist studies and practices for twenty-five years of her life. Then she spends two hours painting a masterpiece. So did it take her two hours to create it? Or twenty-five years?
I don’t know the answer to that, but I do know that sculpting a wall three stories high would take my entire life. There are splinters in my palm, open cuts on my fingers, and a deep purple bruise on my thumb caused by a rogue mallet. The block of oak looks more like a child’s forgotten pile of Play-Doh than the angular bison I’m trying to re-create.
A pigeon flies across the open space, landing on an old green dust-covered lamp. The whole building seems to shift and sigh, as if its alive. As if it’s hurting.
Sutton spent the past week with structural engineers and contractors who told him the same thing they told me—the library is broken beyond repair. While it stands now, the essence of the building is too weak to hold forever. And once construction begins, with its banging and its jostling, the whole thing might come down. It’s a hazard. An accident waiting to happen.
Which is why I didn’t tell Sutton that I was coming today.
He drove to his ranch today to work with Gold Rush. That’s the name of the white-beige horse with fear and defiance in her eyes. If he’s gone too long, he would lose her trust. That’s what he told me last night when he called. He also told me that the library is a hopeless cause.
I study the grain of the wood, the way it fought the trowel.
There are woodworkers more qualified than me. Really any of them are more qualified than me. I’ve done basic sculpture as part of my degree and even used small wood pieces in some of my mixed media work. Nothing on this scale, but I can’t give up the project. Even as much as I trust Sutton to save the building, as much as I hope he actually will, the wall has to be mine.
Maybe it’s becoming an obsession.
As much of an obsession as the shiny mall had been to Christopher.
“What are you doing here?”
I turn back to see him stepping through the plastic sheeting, his eyes black with fury. It’s like I’ve conjured him from my mind. He can’t be real. Can’t. Be. Even as he kicks aside pieces of debris and storms closer, even as the dust parts for him like the goddamn Red Sea, I’m sure he’s part of my imagination. I must have inhaled more varnish than I thought.
He grasps my arms, both of them, hauling me up. I gasp at the sudden movement. The trowel I was holding clatters to the floor. Those black eyes sear me, accusatory and cold.
“I said, what the hell are you doing here?”
“Rumpelstiltskin,” is all I can manage to say, which makes me sound crazy.
Christopher Bardot has always had that effect on me. From the time I was fifteen years old, he made me stutter and stumble. But he doesn’t disappear when I say his name.
Instead he looks incredulous. “This building should be condemned.”
I yank away from him, only able to breathe again when he’s no longer touching me. “This building is none of your concern. Not after you sold it to me. For a ridiculous price, I should mention.”
“It’s my concern if it crashes to the ground next to my luxury condos.”
“Oh no.” I manage a laugh that sounds haughty and unafraid. As if I’m not shaking inside. “Sutton told me you’re still developing in the west end. I’ll stay out of your business if you stay out of mine.”
His lips press together. It’s as if the words are torn from him. As if each one pulls a piece of his skin when he speaks it. “When did you