Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 82698 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 413(@200wpm)___ 331(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82698 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 413(@200wpm)___ 331(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
The only person she’d ever trusted with her secret was Adrian. But then, she’d known Adrian since she was sixteen. Adrian had seen her grow from a nameless street artist to Lynx to San Holo. Saskia had known Clay only a week—eight days, to be exact. She’d even thought he could be a dirty rotten scoundrel like Hugo.
But that week had shown her how different he was from her first impression. Her gut and her heart believed every word his artists told her. She believed in what Dylan said. She believed in what Clay had done tonight, researching all the resources he could offer them. Even asking Dylan for his opinion.
She believed in Clay.
But if she believed in him, didn’t that mean she had to trust him one thousand percent? The way she trusted Adrian?
The thought was like a sledgehammer to her stomach.
She did trust Clay. The way all his artists did. The way Gareth did. The way Dylan did.
One thousand percent.
She had to tell him. No matter what his reaction was, he deserved the truth. So did Dylan. She wouldn’t even run it by Adrian. For the first time in five years, she would put her heart before her art.
Even if Clay hated her once he knew.
Clay paced his loft from one end to the other.
She’d left. Had he done something wrong, pushed her too hard about San Holo’s identity? Did work always have to come before everything else? Or could he lead with his heart and give up the hunt for once in his life?
Yes, he’d promised Dylan. But he was coming to realize that finding out who San Holo was had been all about his desire to win. Maybe winning wasn’t everything.
Unless it was winning Saskia’s heart.
He almost texted her. Almost called her. Almost raced to her.
But he didn’t even know where she lived, except that her home was somewhere in the Haight. He blamed himself for that too. Everything had been about him—his warehouses, his artists, his promise to uncover San Holo. He’d never asked anything about her life outside of her job. Because that was all that mattered to him. That and getting her into his bed.
No wonder she needed a break. He’d driven her away.
He sent her only one text then, because she’d been clear about needing space tonight.
Whenever you’re ready, let’s talk. He didn’t even beg for an answer.
When she was ready, he vowed, he’d tell her she’d become more important to him than anyone or anything else.
Chapter Eighteen
Rather than make the long drive to Pebble Beach after last night’s family mastermind, then all the way back again for the Maverick birthday party on Sunday, Dane and Camille stayed at the Nob Hill flat. As did Gabrielle.
Fernsby’s thoughts had buzzed all night.
Clay was immersed in his relationship with the lovely Saskia. Of which Fernsby wholeheartedly approved.
But the larger question was, who exactly was Saskia Oliver?
The precise answer came to Fernsby in the sleepless hours just before dawn.
He’d gone immediately to the warehouse. After he’d served breakfast, of course. He had standards and would never leave his employer in the lurch even if he had a mission.
When he arrived, however, Saskia Oliver wasn’t there, and Clay had rushed off to some important meeting.
Bollocks.
But he knew, because he was Fernsby and knew everything, that the woman would show up sooner or later. He waited on the corner for his first sight of her, wanting to speak to her before Clay did.
There she was, almost running, head down. She would have barreled right into him if he hadn’t been so quick on his feet.
Fernsby steadied her with his hands on her shoulders. “Dear Miss Oliver. The very woman I wish to speak with.”
She tried to wrench out of his grasp, saying in a near frenzied voice, “I have to talk to Clay.”
He held tight and said to her, when she finally looked him in the eye, “I know who you are. And it’s not San Holo’s assistant.”
Her lovely mocha-with-a-hint-of-cinnamon eyes went wide, and he saw clearly what he hadn’t realized the other day. She had artist’s eyes, taking in every detail of his worn and craggy face.
He said what had to be said. “You’re San Holo.”
She didn’t gasp. She didn’t faint. But with his hands on her shoulders, he was sure he felt the flutter of her heart. “Wow,” she said. “You’re good.”
He dropped a hand to her elbow and started walking, guiding her. “Shall we have coffee and a biscuit and talk?” He smiled down at her. “Before Clay returns.”
They said nothing until they were seated inside the coffee shop, their cups on the table between them. He’d passed on the biscuits, however. They didn’t look up to snuff. Even Gabrielle’s vegan biscuits would be preferable.
The steam vented on the espresso machine, the barista yelled out names, and people talked, laughed, even shouted to be heard over everyone else.