Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 72863 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 364(@200wpm)___ 291(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72863 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 364(@200wpm)___ 291(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
“I’m hungry,” I whine, motioning to my still unmade sandwich.
“I’ll make you a sandwich. Go and pack what you need. I’m calling the movers now, so whatever you don’t want someone to touch, pack it and bring it with us.”
“So bossy,” I mumble as I head to my room.
Is it bad that I like it when he’s bossy?
I’m never going to tell him that, though. I don’t want to inflate his ego.
I stop in the bathroom to relieve myself, then change out of the skirt and into a clean one. I look around my room, trying to decide what the hell I’m actually going to pack, because I honestly didn’t think it would get this far. I figured if I just kept ignoring his insistence that I move in with him, that eventually, I could make it go away. But I guess that was wishful thinking.
I’ve never lived with anyone in my adult life. I’ve always preferred to be alone. I guess that’s a part of my trauma from growing up. The only person I trust is Carrie, and even then, we have our own places. It’s not that I never imagined I would live with a man one day. I thought I would be doing such things when I was older, but I guess I’m in my early thirties now, and it’s time to start growing up even if I don’t want to.
I shove a few of my favorite things into a bag, and it’s not long after that that he comes in, holding a plate with a perfect ham sandwich.
He takes one look at my bag, steps closer, takes it from my grip, and hands me the sandwich. “We need to go. I’m tired and need sleep.”
“What kept you up all night?” I ask, then take a bite of the sandwich. Damn, he did do a good job. I follow him out, taking my plate with me, and glance into the kitchen to see that he even cleaned up after himself.
When he pulls the door open, I see the movers—the ones I’ve turned away several times. He steps back and lets them inside. They avoid eye contact with me as they pass, heading to the kitchen to begin packing it up.
“Your late-night antics pulled me from my bed during the early hours of the morning,” he murmurs so only I can hear.
We walk out to his car, and he glances at my bike. “You should sell that. I’ll buy you a new one.”
“I made sure there were no other traces of me,” I say with a mouth full of sandwich.
“I found out it was you, and it’ll only be a matter of time before someone else does,” he says.
“That’s because of the milkshake,” I say, smiling. “Speaking of, can we stop and get one?”
“No. Bed,” he grumbles, throwing my bag into the back seat and then opening the passenger door for me.
But on the way to his house, he stops and gets me a milkshake. And that makes me very happy.
THIRTY-TWO
BOSTON
My house is modest at best, but it’s suited my needs well. It’s a small three-bedroom with a large yard that I take great pride in. I have plenty of money, but I never saw any need for a lavish, oversized home.
I hold the door open for Maven, and she pauses at the threshold, peering inside. The entryway leads to a hallway, both with rich, dark-stained hardwood floors, and walls painted in a warm gray that complements the dark wood. You can see into the dining area, which houses a modern dining table, upholstered chairs, and a small chandelier. The furniture is plush and was chosen with intention. I hired an interior designer to do it for me, gave her an endless budget, and warned her I wanted all the furniture to be comfortable. If my ass is on it, I don’t want to have to leave it, and she did that perfectly.
Maven glances at me, her eyes wide. “It’s so…” She turns her attention back to the entryway. “Clean and—”
“You can add color if you must,” I tell her, and shut the door behind us.
“It’s actually quite beautiful and comforting,” she says, surprising me, considering we just came from her house, where color is splashed everywhere.
“Come, let me show you something.”
She nods and follows me. Pushing open a door, I turn to see her reaction as I flick on the light. A bright overhead light illuminates the space, and her eyes go wide. On every wall, I built bookcases, but they’re not for books. No, they’re for her heels. In the middle of the room is a gray ottoman situated on top of a blue rug.
“Was it a library?” she whispers.
“Yes, but I added more shelves to accommodate your shoe collection that I know you can’t live without.” She beams up at me. I know her connection to her shoes and what they mean to her.