“Paige?”
“Hold on.” She takes another lengthy sip and pulls the glass away. “I may need to be drunk to get through this. Putting up with your crap, I mean.”
And I thought she meant this whole surreal situation.
I gulp several pulls straight from the bottle again.
“Your grandma thinks you’re nice. Why won’t you let anyone else see it?” she asks.
It’s my turn to laugh, a bitter edge in my voice. “She’s Grandma. She has to think that. Has she been talking to you?”
She nods with a syrupy smile. “Maybe I shouldn’t be so hard on you, Wardhole.”
“We’re supposed to act like we’re in love, remember? Dropping Wardhole feels like a good place to start,” I growl, loving how her face heats when my eyes sink into her.
“It’s a term of endearment,” she says softly.
Is it?
She doesn’t call Nicholas anything like that.
“Did Grandma tell you not to be so hard on me?” I ask.
“Eh, something like that.” She brings a finger to her pensive lips, pretending she’s deep in thought. “I’m giving her advice the consideration it deserves.”
Shit. I’ve got to talk to Grandma tomorrow. This is awkward enough without her butting into my fake relationship.
“How’s the guest suite treating you?”
“Unfamiliar, cold, lonely...but very luxurious. Hard to complain.” She smiles as she lifts the goblet to her lips again.
“I’m sorry. Once you’re used to it, it won’t be unfamiliar. As for the temperature, I can put a space heater in, or you can change the thermostat anytime to warm it up—”
“Oh, Ward, I didn’t mean cold as in frigid—I meant uninviting.”
“Bull. It’s a beautiful living space,” I say, careful not to feel wounded.
“It’s lovely, it’s just...” She purses her lips. “It’s too much. It’s unlived in. Feels like a hotel room, even a very nice one. I don’t know. It needs some warmer hues.”
“You can change it up however you want. I’ll pay for any renovation.”
“Nah, that’s too extreme for a few months.”
“It’s my place, but for the next ninety days, it’s also yours. I’ll decide what’s necessary to make you feel at home.”
She shakes her head, splashing my vision with blond-gold. “Yeah, but you’re already paying me to be here and fronting money for all my necessities. You shouldn’t have to redecorate on top of it. What’s three little months?”
We share a look that says exactly the kind of crushing weight it is.
I take another gulp from the wine bottle, breaking the awkward silence. “I think when you agree to live with a woman, a man expects to redecorate.”
Her laughter fills my ears.
“Warmer hues, am I right? I can tell you like the idea,” I say, pressing her.
She rolls one shoulder in a half shrug. “I mean...maybe just a little something to make it cozier.”
“Done. I’ll have Grayson take care of it tomorrow. See? We can resolve our issues like human beings.” I clink my wine bottle against her goblet, celebrating a rare agreement.
Of course, she loses her shit in a belly laugh.
Of course, I’m worried about my ears getting all too used to that warm serenade of good humor.
“Were you serious about opening a studio?” I ask, holding her dancing eyes.
She nods firmly. “Probably. I haven’t made a final decision but...yeah, it sounds nice. I love sculpting more than life. I’d like to be able to create without limitations again. Art can be a hard sell, and it takes time to nail the market, but I could always teach classes to make it profitable.”
“What limitations?”
“Huh?”
“You said you want to create without limitations again.”
“Oh—at Northwestern, the studio was always accessible as long as you had a code, and I had all the equipment and space I needed. I have a table kiln now, but it’s not full-sized. I also have pretty limited workspace. Still, I can’t complain. My apartment isn’t bad by Chicago shoebox standards. I just can’t bring everything to life there. It gets dark pretty quickly too. The lighting just isn’t the best.”
“You’re serious about your art,” I say, mulling over the obvious.
She nods and smiles. “Art makes pain beautiful and life make sense.”
Hell of an observation.
Still, I wonder. “If you’re so passionate about your work, why did you come to the firm for an EA role?”
A slow smear of a smile shows her pearly teeth.
“What’s not to like at Brandt Ideas? The pay rocks, and architecture is art, on a grand scale. You can’t be Beatrice’s grandson and not know it. She’s only said it a million times in interviews.”
“Touché,” I whisper, smiling in turn when I remember it was practically Grandma’s motto at every big speech for younger crowds.
“You guys make functional art for people. They can enjoy it daily, whether they’re inside the buildings or just gazing from the outside in. I love it, even if it’s not something I could do for a living.”
“Why? You’re creative and smart.”