Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 92411 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 462(@200wpm)___ 370(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92411 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 462(@200wpm)___ 370(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
And then there’s Jed and me. I walked out of our apartment with two suitcases and some boxes. Ninety-five percent of the things that surrounded us were rented. We lived in the short term, and I guess we loved in it too. I should have seen earlier that we were never going to work. We weren’t living the dream; we only leased it.
“Gym area. Space for the pool we can start construction on when we’re married, and then changing areas.”
I know he’s joking, but it doesn’t stop my heart from racing in my chest at him mentioning us being married. I take a breath and try to get a grip. This is a job, not a date.
“Infrared sauna,” he continues. “Lera has a bedroom and kitchen through there.” He points at a door I hadn’t noticed before.
“It’s a beautiful house,” I say. “Or more accurately, mansion. Ken Dream House. Whatever the technical term is.”
He doesn’t react, and we head to the stairs. “What would I see if I saw your place in New York?” he asks.
“I actually moved out of my place before I came to London,” I say. “I’m not sure where I’ll go when I go back.”
“Jed kept your apartment? Broke the engagement and then threw you out?” He lets out a huff, and it kind of feels nice that he’s so obviously Team Tuesday.
“No, he moved to Iowa. Out of nowhere. Quit his job and ran off with a ballerina.”
“Jesus, Tuesday. How long were you two together?” He leads us upstairs and out into the hall where Lera showed me in, and I turn a full three hundred and sixty degrees to try to get my bearings. This place is huge.
“Nearly ten years. We were college sweethearts.” I’m staring at the chandelier, wondering how in all holy hell the thing stays in place. It looks like it’s floating in midair. “This is really pretty.”
“Are you upset?” he asks, and I turn to look at him.
“Am I upset my fiancé cheated on me, nursed a secret desire to move back to his hometown, broke our engagement, and split? I’m fine about it,” I say sarcastically. “Wouldn’t you be?”
“It’s just . . . You don’t seem that cut up.”
“You want me to cry on your shoulder?”
He rolls his eyes and leads me through a door I’m fairly certain we haven’t been through yet. Somehow we end up back in the kitchen.
“You’re right,” I add. “I’m not as cut up about it as I thought I would be either. Maybe it’s because I don’t want someone who doesn’t want me,” I explain.
“And now you can focus on your real love, Daniel De Luca?” he asks.
I laugh. “My first love. I forgot about him for a while there. Being in England has brought the fairy tale back.”
Our gazes slide together, and it’s like he’s pulled me into his arms—I can feel his warmth all around me. He’s not Dracula, after all. Not even close.
He clears his throat and looks away. “Lera has prepared some food.”
Since we were last in here, bowls and plates have appeared on one of the two islands, filled with every type of food imaginable. A literal banquet has been laid out, including what looks suspiciously like shrimp curry, which is one hundred percent my favorite dish, as noted in my questionnaire. It’s like he’s expecting twenty guests to appear.
“You know, I might need to move in,” I say, surveying all the food and deciding what to try first. “Sample Lera’s cooking on a daily basis. Make sure the gym works. That sort of thing.” I look up at him. “For preparation purposes only, obviously.”
He grins, and it’s so boyish and open, for a second I forget about his buttoned-up, gruff side and smile right back.
“I thought we could just help ourselves,” he says.
“As opposed to getting your footman to serve us?”
“Just fill your plate, Monday Morning.” He hands me a dish, and we both dig into the feast in front of us.
“So you’re having dinner with a woman,” I say as I take a seat at the kitchen table. It’s positioned by the window and has been laid with place mats, silverware, wineglasses, and a vase of white roses. I’m guessing we have Lera to thank for that. “How does it feel?”
“I have dinner with women. Just not women I date.”
“Because you don’t date,” I add for him.
“Right. But I’ve had dinner with women for work.”
“And you never get asked out?” I ask. He’d get hit on all the time if he was in New York.
He finishes the mouthful of food he’s chewing. “Women make it known they’re interested, if that’s what you mean.”
“I bet they do.”
He raises his eyebrows in a flirty pulse.
“And you say”—I pause, only continuing once I’ve pitched my voice low and adopted a remarkably bad British accent—“‘I’ll fuck you, but I’m not paying for you to eat a meal beforehand’?”