Read The Art of Stealing Kisses (Stealing Hearts Book 2) for Free Online Page B

stiffening.
    He
says, “It’s
been so long since I came here with a fresh pair of eyes like yours.”
    We
enter Notting Hill—which
I recognize from the Julia Roberts movie—and
I’m
oohing and ahhing over the cute colorful buildings when we stop in
front of one. I can’t
wipe the huge smile off my face, but I try not to be presumptuous.
“Do
we have business here, Mr. St. Clair?”
    He
gets out of the car and I do the same, stepping out into the street.
There’s
a cute café
with outdoor tables, artists riding by on bicycles, little boutiques,
and a great buzz, just like in the movie.
    “This
is your home away from home.” He
gestures to the bright blue stucco buildings in front of us, with
flower boxes in the windows, and a cat peering at us from the front
steps.
    I
gasp. “Really?”
    St.
Clair grins, his dimples throwing me off balance. God, he is
gorgeous. “Number
3 on the left.” He
hands me a brass key. “It’s
a friend of a friend’s
who’s
out of town. I thought the apartment and the neighborhood would suit
you. This way, you have your own space, to really get to know the
city.”
    “Thank
you,” I
gush. I hug him, I can’t
help it, and he hesitates and then embraces me fully, our bodies
pressing together. I inhale his aftershave, slide my hands along his
muscular shoulders, feel the heat rise in my chest and begin to sink
lower, so I let him go.
    “How
are you holding up?” he
asks. “You
should take it easy for a while, get some rest before the jet-lag
hits you.”
    “I’m
fine.” I
look at the cute front stoops, the cherry trees, and the colorful
café awnings.
“I’m
more than fine. I’m
in London!” I
spread my arms wide. “Let’s
get started.”
    “Okay,
okay, Energizer Bunny.”
St. Clair laughs. “I’m
texting you an address where you can meet me in a few hours.”
He gestures
to the driver, who lifts my suitcase from the trunk and carries it up
the stairs to the front door. “Go
inside and get settled, and I’ll
see you later.”
    He
turns to get back in the car. “Charles?”
I say, my voice stopping him. “Really,
thank you,”
I tell him again. “This
is incredible.”
    “Don’t
thank me yet,” he
says, getting into the back seat. “We are still here for business.”
He winks and shuts the door.
     
    Inside,
the apartment is an artist’s
dream. It’s
light and airy, open and full of homey touches like soft blankets on
the comfy couch, a tea selection fanned out on a pretty plate, and a
wall lined with lighted cabinets housing little statues and
decorative vases.
    The
bedroom has a queen bed with a fluffy comforter, and a small desk in
the corner with an ink jar and quill pen. I quickly unpack my things
in the small closet and go through to the bathroom. There’s
an actual claw-foot white porcelain tub and a jar of lavender bath
salts, and I can’t
wait to draw a bath and have long relaxing soak.
    Even
though St. Clair warned me about jet-lag, I don’t
want to waste another moment indoors. I decide to go out and
experience the culture. I stroll down the tree-lined streets, past
vintage clothing stores with beautiful displays of dresses and shoes,
and quaint cafes with metal folding chairs out front. It feels like a
fairy tale. I actually live here! Even if it’s
only temporary, it’s
a dream I never imagined coming true. Mom,
I hope you can see this.
     
    A
few hours later, freshened up and clothes changed, half a baguette
and an apple in my stomach, I’m
standing inside London College of Art waiting for St. Clair to come
out of a meeting with the professors of the college. A display of
student art installations sits in the center of the room, and it’s
fun to look at what creativity the students are allowed to develop. I
remember how much easier it was to take risks when there were safety
nets and no real-world repercussions, and I miss the feeling of
flying, of being so inspired you just jump and trust that where you
land is where you’re
supposed to