Total pages in book: 71
Estimated words: 69524 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 348(@200wpm)___ 278(@250wpm)___ 232(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 69524 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 348(@200wpm)___ 278(@250wpm)___ 232(@300wpm)
I frown and tuck my phone back in my pocket.
If I could learn more about her art, I might be able to capture her attention when we make small talk at the café.
I resolve that I have to know the subject of her painting. I’ll learn Abigail’s secrets, and she will submit to me.
No one seems to live in the powder blue house across the street from Abigail’s apartment. I took some time to peer into the darkened windows before settling into the shadows of the overgrown garden. The house is devoid of furnishings, and the peeling wallpaper inside is in even worse condition than the exterior paint.
It’s a convenient arrangement for me; I can watch my prey without concern about being interrupted.
After my frustration last night, I came prepared. I lean back in the rickety garden chair and lift the binoculars I purchased this afternoon.
The back of Abigail’s head appears in sharp relief, brunette waves shining in the golden light cast by her cheap standing lamps. Her voluminous hair is tamed into a loose braid, and the pretty amethyst streak weaves through the darker locks. I want to wrap that braid around my fist and use it to anchor her to me while I plunder her lush mouth.
Her canvas is still propped up on the easel in the middle of her living room, but she’s sitting on her couch now. Some maddened urge to keep my focus on her prevents me from shifting my attention to the painting for a full minute.
But she’s on her laptop, probably browsing social media or something equally mundane. I’d much prefer to see her paint again, especially now that I’m equipped to view her art properly.
I blow out a sigh and focus on the unfinished painting instead. It’s a stunning impressionist landscape, depicting a pristine beach before an incoming storm. The sand is captured in textured strokes of pale yellow, indicating a sunny day before the encroaching tempest. At the horizon, turbulent, dark navy waves surge, so at odds with the peaceful beach.
I wonder if this is a scene she’s painting from memory, or if it’s an embellishment.
I’ve never seen a storm like it.
But then again, I’ve never really paid much attention to the natural world. I prefer to spend my time amongst people rather than pondering my surroundings in solitude. I can control people, not the weather. So, nature doesn’t interest me much. It’s just a backdrop, scenery for the psychological games that keep me amused.
But there’s something compelling about Abigail’s art. I can’t quite put my finger on why I’m still staring at the painting when I could be watching her instead.
I shake off the odd compulsion to continue studying the stormy sea and focus on her braided hair again. The shade of dark purple is truly lovely against her brunette locks. I admire the way it weaves through her thick waves, how the heavy braid is loose enough to conceal most of her nape. I get the smallest glimpse of bare skin where her neck meets her shoulder, which is covered by her soft black work shirt.
She hasn’t bothered to change after finishing her shift; she’s gone straight to her laptop.
Why isn’t she painting?
I’m scowling in the darkness, and I smooth away the unbidden expression of displeasure.
I’m losing control around her, and even if no one is here to see it, my cheeks still flush with a strange heat.
I definitely don’t like the sensation, so I choose to ignore this particular new feeling she’s eliciting.
I’ll have her under my control soon enough.
What is she so absorbed with at her laptop?
I try to focus the binoculars on her screen, but whatever she’s viewing is too bright and small for me to make out more than a white blur. Her fingers fly over the keyboard.
She’s typing something, and the deft, rapid strokes of her delicate fingers fascinate me almost as much as the strokes of her paintbrush.
I’m not sure how long I indulge myself in watching her elegant hands before she puts her laptop away. When she stands up from where she was seated on the couch, she turns toward her bedroom rather than her canvas. I can see her in profile now, and her porcelain cheek is flushed a gorgeous shade of pink.
It reminds me of the alluring shade of her blush when we first met at the bar last week.
What was she writing that has her cheeks turning pink?
I’m burning for answers, but all I’m met with is darkness when she turns off the lights. She disappears into her bedroom. I can’t see into it because this window only provides me a view into her living room.
I could prowl around her building to find out what she’s doing now, but that would be even riskier than watching her from this shadowed garden. I’d be out in the open, and one of her neighbors might see me peering into her window.