Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 91216 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91216 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
But Tyler’s earnest expression and the hint of hope in his eyes makes me hesitate.
He must sense my reluctance because he quickly adds, “It doesn’t have to be a date or anything. I just thought . . . maybe if you had someone to go with, it might be easier. And I promise, no mistletoe or cheesy Christmas carols.”
“Look,” I say, softening my tone, “I appreciate the offer, I really do. But I’m not sure I’m ready for that yet.”
Tyler nods, his shoulders slumping slightly. I feel bad. He seems like a nice guy, I suppose. I mean . . . I wouldn’t really know. I’ve only seen him at work, but I do feel bad considering he came all the way to my house. He’s not bad looking. In fact, he’s quite handsome in a smart accountant sort of way, with his tousled brown hair and warm hazel eyes. I find myself reconsidering, almost against my will. But then I remind myself that guys like Tyler simply don’t do it for me.
Too nice. Too straitlaced.
I’m not exactly looking for the bad boy. In fact, I don’t want that either. But I do want someone who can challenge me, someone with a bit of an edge. Someone who doesn’t follow all the rules.
Someone who has the same sexual interests as me.
And something about Tyler tells me that the man likes his coffee very vanilla.
“I appreciate you coming all this way, Tyler,” I say, trying to soften the rejection. “But I don’t think it’s a good idea.”
Tyler nods, his disappointment evident but not surprising. “I understand. I’m sorry for bothering you at home like this.”
As he turns to leave, a gust of wind whips down the street, rustling the bare branches of the trees lining my sidewalk. The cold air bites at my exposed skin, and I find myself calling out before I can stop myself.
“Wait, Tyler. Do you . . . do you want to come in for a cup of coffee? It’s freezing out here.”
His eyes light up, and for a moment, I regret the invitation. But it’s too late now, and besides, it’s just coffee. What harm could it do?
As I lead him into my small living room, I notice how out of place he looks. His crisp button-down shirt and pressed slacks seem at odds with my eclectic decor and the general lived-in feel of my space.
“Nice place,” he says, his eyes roaming over the abstract art on my walls and the collection of vintage vinyl records that belonged to my father stacked in the corner.
“Thanks,” I reply, heading to the kitchen. “How do you take your coffee?”
“Black is fine,” he calls back.
I pause, my hand hovering over the coffee maker. Black coffee? Maybe there’s more to Tyler than I thought.
When I return with two steaming mugs, I find him examining my bookshelf. He turns to me with a raised eyebrow. “The Marquis de Sade? I wouldn’t have pegged you for a fan of eighteenth-century erotic literature.”
I nearly drop the mugs. “Oh, that’s . . . that’s for research,” I stammer, feeling my face flush.
Tyler’s lips quirk into a small smile. “Research, huh? What kind of research requires the works of the man who gave us the word ‘sadism’?”
As I struggle to form a response, I realize that maybe, just maybe, I’ve underestimated Tyler. The fact that he even knows this is—
I set the mugs down on the coffee table, trying to regain my composure. “I like to read a bunch of things,” I say, aiming for nonchalance but hearing the defensiveness in my voice. “I’m interested in all kinds of literature.”
Tyler nods as he drinks his coffee, but there’s something in his eyes that unsettles me. A glint of . . . curiosity? Excitement? I can’t quite place it, but it makes me acutely aware that we’re alone in my house.
We drink our coffee in silence. Awkward, painful silence.
Tyler’s gaze jerks to the bookshelf, then back to me.
He’s harmless. Right?
“So,” Tyler says, breaking the silence. His voice is low, almost a purr. “What other interesting literature are you hiding on those shelves?”
I swallow hard, my throat suddenly dry despite the coffee. “Nothing special,” I manage. “Just your typical bestsellers and classics.”
Tyler sets his mug down and stands up, returning to the bookshelf. I remain frozen in my seat, watching as his fingers trail along the spines of my books.
“Typical bestsellers and classics, huh?” he says, pulling out a worn paperback. “Like this copy of Story of O? Another research project?”
My heart hammers in my chest. I’d forgotten that was there, nestled innocently between my Dickens and Austen.
“I . . . I . . .” I stutter, unable to form a coherent thought.
Had I known I’d have a surprise guest from work stopping by, I might have done a sweep of my house. The thought of what is or isn’t in my bookcase has never been an issue. The hermit in me has never been faced with this uncomfortable situation before.