Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 75723 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 379(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75723 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 379(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
Bradford. He’s the face of the show. No one knows it’s really me behind the scenes who is getting things done—correcting mistakes, putting in the hours, making the calls, answering the emails. Alright, so some people do know because it’s me they deal with. I’m talking about the better half of our clients and the general public.
I put my phone down and lean back in the chair, and then I immediately start going through a cycle of exercises for my arm. At first, I hated doing them, but then I worked them into every aspect of my day, and now it’s second nature. Half the time, I’m swinging it around like a flipping madman, and I don’t even realize I’m doing it.
Hans lowers his book. I’m intrigued by the cover, namely the growly, surly-looking, dark-haired male model holding a scantily clad blonde woman in his arms. She looks like she’s been keeping all his secrets, but she doesn’t really mind because they’re dirty and naughty, and she likes those kinds of things.
I cock a brow. “Are you reading smut romance?”
“Why smut?” He turns the book and surveys the cover. “Ah, I see. I don’t know that it’s smut. More just dark stuff.”
“Dark? Like what?” My grandmother was a great lover of romance books, but I can’t say I’ve indulged in many in my time. A not-so-nice voice in my head chimes to the tune of look where it got her. Or, more accurately, look where it got you. Honestly, it’s been over a week now, and I can’t say I feel as snarky about the whole thing as that voice implied.
Actually, I don’t feel very snarky at all. I’ve been losing sleep, sure, but it doesn’t have to do with disliking Everleigh. It’s more like being haunted by the ghost of the wife I can’t have because she’s beautiful and lighthearted and nice. She’s also alluring, attractive, and spirited, but she’s not really my wife, and I’m sure she wouldn’t appreciate the advances. It’s an easy equation. Advances equal fucking up the peace we’ve carved out between us.
Hans leans back in his chair. He has the footstool popped out because it’s a recliner. Taking a deep breath, he crosses his arms over his head and shuts his eyes, laying the book across his lap so the spine flexes. “This girl gets sold by her dad to this guy who is a real asshole because her dad’s also a real asshole. Lots of assholes in the beginning. At first, she’s terrified, but then the guy who is all hard and scary becomes not so hard and scary, and they have lots of dark, kinky sex, and they find out they like each other, which leads to more dark and kinky sex. Then, they find out they’re in love, and all the while, the guy is trying to destroy her father, and someone else is trying to kill them, and her father is still plotting.”
“Oh wow. All of that, and you’re only halfway done?”
He glances down, and I swear it’s to hide a blush. Hans blushing? It’s quite a sight to behold. “I’ve read it once before.”
“Only once?”
He picks it up and snaps it shut. “Alright, so a few times. It’s a favorite. Whatever.”
“It’s perfectly fine to like what you like. No worries on my account,” I tell him with a chuckle.
He snorts. “You’re not being serious. Sarcasm suits you, you bastard.”
“No, really. This is coming from a man whose shirts you have to button and whom you have to shave every morning and sometimes in the evenings. I find nothing wrong with enjoying a good book, whatever the subject matter might be. Just because you look like a brute doesn’t mean you can’t be all soft inside. I know you’re smart. The rest of the world might think you’re a big oaf, but I know you. You’re a physicist, for Christ’s sake.”
“Hmm.” He doesn’t look so cross now.
“Hmm,” I echo. It’s the universal male speak for ending a conversation, I guess.
I pick up my phone and flip open my laptop to resume working on the real estate deal my brother fudged, but a sudden loud bang from upstairs interrupts me.
“What the hell was that?”
Hans shoots out of the chair, immediately on guard. The book is still in his hands, so as he strikes a fighting stance, it’s kind of a funny picture, and my first instinct is to laugh, even though the house might be under attack.
Just then, there’s another bang, followed by the loudest, angriest death metal music I’ve ever heard. It’s muted because it’s coming from upstairs, but the banging isn’t muted at all. It goes on and on, and I realize what it must be. Stomping. Or jumping. I slowly look up. I’m not sure what’s worse. The thumping on the ceiling that makes the light fixtures in my office shake or the not-so-quiet lull of death metal continuing to infiltrate the room. Another thump actually makes dust particles fall onto my desk.