Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 83167 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83167 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
I followed him.
The (white) dining room table had a turquoise block rug under it.
That was good.
But the kitchen had oversized, gleaming white subway tile all over the walls. Stark white counters. Though one side was white cupboards, the other side was black, and I had one below-counter, hunter green cupboard to throw in some contrast. The railing to the stairs that led down to the back door was white, but the door was black.
More bamboo shades, no curtains.
And the floor was tiled in a kickass black and white artisanal design and the light fixtures were gold.
The hunter green was semi manly.
Did men do white?
At all?
I realized when Mo made the rounds of the blinds in the dining room and kitchen that he didn’t care about artisanal floors or my stemmed, wide but shallow wooden fruit bowl and whether or not that fruit bowl was feminine or mostly unisex.
Through his ministrations, the entire space was shrouded in darkness, so I flipped a light switch.
And he didn’t care about the gold fixtures.
He was again looking at me.
“While this is going on, you should feel free to eat and drink what you want,” I offered and opened the door to my fridge (white SMEG, dammit, SMEG was definitely girlie, wasn’t it?). “You cover my ass, mi casa is definitely su casa.”
His gaze flicked to the inside of the fridge and his face registered open approval I could not miss before it came back to me.
So, he ate healthy too.
And maybe he approved of my obsessive lining up of stuff and tidy placement and (perhaps OCD) usage of matching food storage containers.
If he did, this would be good.
I mean, it looked like a Container Store ad in there.
It was then it hit me he didn’t say much.
But he definitely communicated.
And this was further demonstrated when he turned his attention to the foyer.
He was done in the kitchen, time to move on.
I didn’t move on.
“I like light, bright space.”
“Blinds closed,” he declared.
His voice was very deep. Not rough. Not smooth.
Just right.
Shit!
“I mean, I like bright space so that explains all the white,” I told him.
He didn’t care even a little bit about all the white.
His attention went again to the foyer.
“And I’m tidy,” I shared.
He looked to me.
Then immediately back to the foyer.
Okay then.
Time to move on.
I moved us on.
I took him along the short hall that contained the stairs to the study and TV room on the other side of the house (more closing of blinds).
After that, I took him up the stairs and into the guestroom, bathroom and my pole room where I practiced and choreographed (he didn’t bother with the shades in the guestroom, but the pole room was closed off for sure).
We then went into my master.
I was pretty proud of my house. You know, me buying it. Me gutting it (or hiring someone who did that). Me decorating it. All on my own. No help. No man.
The little stripper that could.
And the master was the masterpiece.
The two-side slanted ceilings of a Tudor upper floor. The diamond-paned windows that featured the window seat. The shelving around all that filled with my beloved books (yeah, strippers read) and stereo. The clean-lined lighting. The cool rattan rugs. The creamy tones of the couches and bedclothes, all this mixed with some warm orange notes in the toss pillows, because I liked orange.
Mo had no opinion on the color orange or the fact it was clear I read a lot.
Mo assessed the fact my tall, but narrow windows (all four across, with two square on top) didn’t have blinds and his mouth got tight.
“The bathroom has frosted windows,” I shared helpfully. “And there aren’t any windows in the walk-in closet.”
The bed was against the back wall.
He turned and looked down at me. “Do not go near those windows or the couches.”
My master was huge. I had a massive seating area for reasons that were mostly aesthetic, unless my nephews were up here messing around, which was usually right where they ran the minute they entered my house because it drove Jet crazy and my boys and me loved driving my big sister crazy.
Two couches faced each other over a coffee table made entirely of glass.
If I was in the mood, it gave me options for lounging and reading.
It gave Mo bad thoughts.
“I read a lot, Mo, and—”
“No window seat. No couches. Or we put up a sheet until this is over.”
I pressed my lips together and sucked them between my teeth.
A sheet would totally mess with my masterpiece.
“And you’re not in this room without clothes, ever,” he went on.
I let go of my lips and nodded.
“Not even just underwear,” he added.
That seemed OTT, considering.
“I strip for a living, Mo, and—”
“Not even just underwear.”
Okay then.
I nodded.
“I sleep on the couch.” And he tilted his head toward the couch.