Brooklyn Flame (A Bridge & Tunnel Romance #1) Read Online Free PDF Page A
Author: Mira Gibson
theme on their artwork.
Would his subjects evolve if he could somehow spend the night with her?
Theoretically, it was possible, but deep down he knew he wouldn’t get the chance.
Life could be such a bitch.
Staring at the dewy label of his Stone IPA, he was lifted from contemplating the finer points of how the age old adage, what goes around comes around, was affecting him personally, when his cell began vibrating in his back pocket.
As soon as he read the name and number flashing across the LCD screen, he swiped hard, answering the call, and the first phrase out of his mouth wasn't a friendly greeting, but an angry one, each word spat out through clenched teeth.
“What the fuck happened? Now she has a gun.”
Chapter Four
The late morning sun was streaming through the bay windows at the back of her studio and on any other day the warmth of it might have calmed her, but Greer’s heart was punching up her throat at how late her model was.
She was ready to fucking kill Jennifer for this.
If it wasn’t bad enough that Jennifer had found the guy through a friend of a friend of an artist of another artist at the tangled end of such a long game of telephone that Jennifer couldn’t even tell Greer the name of the guy or give her his cell number, her best friend in the world also wasn’t answering her phone. And Greer had called her five times and texted twice as much to get a read on just what in the hell was going on.
She tried to smooth out her frazzled emotions. Pacing wasn’t helping, but at least it helped burn off some of her pent up agitation.
Aiming to stay productive, she neared the couch where her model would be lying and fluffed the pillows, not that it made an ounce of difference.
Her clay was under plastic to retain its moisture, but figuring she would need it readily available as soon as her tardy model showed his sorry face she pulled the plastic off and wet her hands in a bowl of water that was resting at the foot of her sculpture.
The clay lump, life-size though it was, would need a total overhaul if she expected to place in the top three at the Phoenix. With wet hands, she stroked her palms over every last inch of it and tried not to cringe at its lumpy muscles and lack of spirit.
Suddenly she noticed her studio was too quiet and quite frankly, she was too sober. For past sculptures, she had spent long hours studying Brandon, who was undoubtedly the love of her life. There was nothing awkward about his nude repose on her couch. But knowing she would soon be staring at a complete stranger, who would be naked as sin if he ever showed up, she figured she could use a stiff drink to steady her nerves.
She stalked out of her studio, passing through the archway where green, stenciled ivy lay woven along the molding - the color of which had reminded her of Hunter’s eyes, or vice versa as the case might have been.
Hunter.
The electric thrill of meeting his gaze had been a stark echo of how she used to feel around Brandon, and for this reason she knew the sexy stranger who had happened into her evening two nights ago was dangerous. Not that she would ever see him again. Greer reasoned there was no real danger other than letting herself get sucked into ideas that would never come to fruition in real life. And she had certainly indulged in them, lying awake at night, letting her mind wander, lingering in bed in the morning, inviting in the memory of him as if it were a motivator to start her day.
Beyond the archway, she scanned the area - her neatly made bed, her desk which she never used except to pay bills once a month, the kitchen where empty wine bottles far outnumbered full ones.
In the kitchen she perused her options - red wine, white in the fridge, whiskey in the cabinet, which called to mind that there was no way in hell she’d dive into hard liquor at 11:45 am, and next to it rested vodka and several mixers.
White wine would do, so she poured a generous glass, fought the urge to
Would his subjects evolve if he could somehow spend the night with her?
Theoretically, it was possible, but deep down he knew he wouldn’t get the chance.
Life could be such a bitch.
Staring at the dewy label of his Stone IPA, he was lifted from contemplating the finer points of how the age old adage, what goes around comes around, was affecting him personally, when his cell began vibrating in his back pocket.
As soon as he read the name and number flashing across the LCD screen, he swiped hard, answering the call, and the first phrase out of his mouth wasn't a friendly greeting, but an angry one, each word spat out through clenched teeth.
“What the fuck happened? Now she has a gun.”
Chapter Four
The late morning sun was streaming through the bay windows at the back of her studio and on any other day the warmth of it might have calmed her, but Greer’s heart was punching up her throat at how late her model was.
She was ready to fucking kill Jennifer for this.
If it wasn’t bad enough that Jennifer had found the guy through a friend of a friend of an artist of another artist at the tangled end of such a long game of telephone that Jennifer couldn’t even tell Greer the name of the guy or give her his cell number, her best friend in the world also wasn’t answering her phone. And Greer had called her five times and texted twice as much to get a read on just what in the hell was going on.
She tried to smooth out her frazzled emotions. Pacing wasn’t helping, but at least it helped burn off some of her pent up agitation.
Aiming to stay productive, she neared the couch where her model would be lying and fluffed the pillows, not that it made an ounce of difference.
Her clay was under plastic to retain its moisture, but figuring she would need it readily available as soon as her tardy model showed his sorry face she pulled the plastic off and wet her hands in a bowl of water that was resting at the foot of her sculpture.
The clay lump, life-size though it was, would need a total overhaul if she expected to place in the top three at the Phoenix. With wet hands, she stroked her palms over every last inch of it and tried not to cringe at its lumpy muscles and lack of spirit.
Suddenly she noticed her studio was too quiet and quite frankly, she was too sober. For past sculptures, she had spent long hours studying Brandon, who was undoubtedly the love of her life. There was nothing awkward about his nude repose on her couch. But knowing she would soon be staring at a complete stranger, who would be naked as sin if he ever showed up, she figured she could use a stiff drink to steady her nerves.
She stalked out of her studio, passing through the archway where green, stenciled ivy lay woven along the molding - the color of which had reminded her of Hunter’s eyes, or vice versa as the case might have been.
Hunter.
The electric thrill of meeting his gaze had been a stark echo of how she used to feel around Brandon, and for this reason she knew the sexy stranger who had happened into her evening two nights ago was dangerous. Not that she would ever see him again. Greer reasoned there was no real danger other than letting herself get sucked into ideas that would never come to fruition in real life. And she had certainly indulged in them, lying awake at night, letting her mind wander, lingering in bed in the morning, inviting in the memory of him as if it were a motivator to start her day.
Beyond the archway, she scanned the area - her neatly made bed, her desk which she never used except to pay bills once a month, the kitchen where empty wine bottles far outnumbered full ones.
In the kitchen she perused her options - red wine, white in the fridge, whiskey in the cabinet, which called to mind that there was no way in hell she’d dive into hard liquor at 11:45 am, and next to it rested vodka and several mixers.
White wine would do, so she poured a generous glass, fought the urge to
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