The Arrogant Artist : A Billionaire Boss Romance (International Bad Boys Set Book 2), стр. 55
“It’s so beautiful here. I’ve had such a great day. Thank you.”
“That’s what happens when you start dating your favorite artist.”
She throws a French fry at me, giggling.
We fall into a comfortable silence, indulging in the great food, and maybe one too many glasses of wine.
“Does anyone else in your family paint?”
Emily stills, and that’s when I realize she hasn’t spoken much about her family.
“Well, um… that’s a bit of a long story.”
“Lucky we have all the time in the world. Plus, lots of wine.” I hold up the bottle, and she rolls her eyes at me.
“Fine,” she groans. “My mother’s French.” This surprises me, but it does explain why she speaks impeccable French. “She was an artist. From what I remember, although the years have strained that view, she was this bohemian woman who didn’t fit in. I come from a small town in Devon. You know the kind where everyone knows everyone else and their business. The people are simple and live lives simply… either fishing or farming, and they love having a few pints down the pub. They aren’t interested in culture and the arts.”
I nod. I’ve never been anywhere like that, but I know of these places and that type of culture.
“My mother met my father when he was on holiday in Paris… it was supposed to be a holiday romance. It was exactly that until my dad came home, and he found out Mum was pregnant. She had written, telling him about her pregnancy.”
That’s something that could happen between Emily and me since we have stopped using protection.
“He sent her money to catch the next ferry to England, so he could marry her, and they could be a family. Of course, my mother not having much and wanting a better life for herself, did just that. She loved it at first… the quaint little fishing village with the most idyllic views, but the locals didn’t understand her, and they were not open to newcomers like she thought they would be.
“My father was a fisherman. He’d be away a lot, so my mother had to fend for herself. She had her art and would paint to keep herself occupied. Things went downhill when she had my brother, and from what I hear, I think she suffered from postpartum depression.
“After that, things quickly turned sour between my parents, but she became pregnant with my sister six months after the birth of my brother. She knew she was stuck. Of course, my father went away fishing, and she was left at home with a baby and a stomach that was growing bigger every day. Her art helped her again, but when she’d lose herself in her art, she would forget about Ryan, my brother. Neighbors complained to my father that they could hear him crying all day and that he appeared dirty while she was busy with her artwork.”
I reach out and hold her hand. I can see this story is upsetting for her to relive, and she gives me a weak smile.
“He banned her from painting. He took all her art and threw it away. She must have been devastated. I can only imagine the feelings of betrayal she must have felt. But Dad was a simple man… he didn’t understand her world, nor did he care to. Of course, after the birth of my sister, Sara, Mum took a turn for the worst. At the time, the doctors didn’t know what the problem was, but eventually she was diagnosed as bipolar. Her moods became erratic, so much so that my father had to find another job because he was too scared to leave her alone with their children. But that didn’t stop them bringing me into the world.”
I squeeze her hand letting her know I’m listening.
“I came at the worst time in their relationship, and my birth added more fuel to the fire. Mum’s moods and behavior became more and more erratic. Once the doctors had found and prescribed the right medication for her, everything seemed a little better, but the damage was done, and even though I got what I thought was a normal mum, in reality I got nothing but a shell.
“My father decided, in a last-ditch effort to save his family, to encourage her to get back into art. Once she held those brushes in her hand, everything changed. She was so happy… or so we thought. But in reality, it wasn’t the art that she was happy about, she was happy because she was having an affair with a local French artist. A couple of weeks after my fifth birthday, she left, and I’ve never seen her again.
“When she left, my father demanded we stop speaking French, he outlawed art and anything to do with her, but I couldn’t give it up. Speaking French and art were the only links I had to my mother, and I held onto them tight and in secret.
“My father passed away just after my graduation from high school, and as sad as I was, I was also relieved because I was able to accept my scholarship for art history, something he’d have never have let me do if he were alive.”
Wow! What a story.
“And where’s your mum now?”
“Here.” I frown. “Apparently, she lives in the South of France somewhere, married to the artist she left my father for.”
“And you haven’t tried to seek her out since arriving.”
“Well, I’ve been kind of busy.” She gives me a look that suggests the amount of trouble I have given her is the cause.
“Oh, that’s right, you have an asshole boss.”
She giggles. “He’s growing on me,” she says flirtatiously.
“I’ll do more than that on you.” I bite her neck which