Free Stepbrother Gigolo (A Stepbrother Romance Book 1) by Clare Cole Page A

student, not a successful artist.
    Wow. How arrogant did that sound? Not just an artist, people, but a successful artist.
    That's not to say I wasn't a messy, fly-by-the-seat-of-my-pants college student at one point. I spent four years perfecting the art of eating terrible food and drinking enough alcohol to give a liver surgeon nightmares. But those days were behind me – unlike many people I knew, I had put my art degree to good use. I actually had a career where I got paid – paid! – for creating stuff.
    That's what brought me to Vegas. You see, I've never subscribed to the theory of the struggling artist. I think it's entirely possible to make money doing something you love. For me, that's creating gigantic pieces of glass that play with light and color. I realized soon after leaving college that I was going to have to earn money somehow – $80,000 in student debts and the complete lack of a pot to piss in saw to that.
    I had an incredible college lecturer who understood the reality of having to live in the real world as soon as I escaped the bubble of education. "Don't be afraid to make money from your creativity," she said. "All your so-called friends will see you as a sell-out and think you've lowered yourself. Ignore them. Sell your art to hotels, restaurants, sports clubs, nightclubs, strip joints – anywhere that needs something interesting on the walls. You can take all that lovely money and create as much so-called ‘real’ art as you want in your spare time. Being worthy doesn’t pay the bills, Kara."
    Ah, yes. "Real" art. She was right all along – everyone I graduated with decided I wasn't a "real" artist the first time I sold a piece to a hotel for $25,000. I wasn't in any galleries, didn't have an agent, never put on an art show – but, boy, did I love having $25,000 burning a hole in my bank account! It was my first taste of being a commercial artist – someone who uses their creativity purely to earn money. When everybody else I knew started starving and complaining they didn't have any money, I was raking it in. Did I get any respect? No. None whatsoever. My lecturer had been right all along. But as much as I would have loved to create "real" art all day long, there's the slight issue of being able to eat.
    Thankfully, I no longer have that problem.
    Anyway, Vegas. They say what happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas – right? Well, I had happened. A huge hotel had decided they quite liked my stuff and wanted to offer me obscene amounts of money for it – so I was more than happy to stay there.
    The lure of work and easy money wasn't the only thing that had brought me to Vegas, however. There was also the small matter of Nick Carlisle.
    Nick was a treat from my friends, a pick-me-up for being unceremoniously dumped for someone thinner, prettier and, well, blonder by my last loser of a boyfriend. That jerk. I should have known he was going to be a problem when Mike suggested taking me to a library so we could "feed our minds" and make out amongst the bookshelves on our first date . Yeah. That happened. That dude was in my life for seven months. What was I thinking?
    He had nice abs. What can I say? I'm a weak, weak person .
    Things came to a head when I came home to find him in bed with another woman. Not just any girl, either. She was slim, gorgeous and had perfect hair, even when it was all tousled and screwed up from resting on a pillow. Damn her. After punching Mike in the ribs so hard I hurt my fingers - I'm an artist, not a fighter - he woke suddenly with a scream and scared her so much she dived under the covers. At that point, I should have started screaming at the top of my lungs about what a bitch she was and throwing his stuff out of the windows. But no. Instead, I ran straight to the bathroom to be physically sick.
    You never know quite how your bodily functions are going to react when you find your boyfriend in bed with someone else.
    "Hey, Kara, don't be angry. This was inevitable,