Total pages in book: 121
Estimated words: 116362 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 582(@200wpm)___ 465(@250wpm)___ 388(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 116362 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 582(@200wpm)___ 465(@250wpm)___ 388(@300wpm)
“I’m not telling you anything, darling,” he says with a smirk and a minute later he’s parking on the street next to an apartment building that seems all glass, reflecting the harbor lights and the houseboat colony beneath. “Not quite a houseboat but I get seasick, so it works out.”
We get out. It’s a fairly new building and he takes me to his third floor apartment, my pulse beating against my wrist, my nerves coming into play again. Is it possible that I haven’t been around a guy in so long that my body is freaking out over Blake against my will? I mean, sure his smile is charming…a little less shit-eating than I’d always thought…but he ain’t Tom Hiddleston.
Though he does have one hell of a nice body, I can’t help but think as we pause outside his door.
As if he hears my thoughts, he glances at me. I hope my cheeks aren’t going red but then I remember the makeup and my cheeks are like two splotches of paint anyway. “You seem nervous.”
“I have something in my eye,” I answer deadpan.
“Well, don’t worry, I’m not about to take advantage of a fair maiden such as yourself,” he says, opening the door and gesturing for me to go inside.
“Believe me, if you even tried you wouldn’t get very far,” I warn him, gingerly stepping inside.
“Death by boring literature, got it.”
I pause, shooting him a nasty look just as he flicks on the lights. The apartment is even prettier on the inside, all hardwood floors and stone grey walls, leather couches and a balcony that overlooks the harbor.
“This is sweet,” I tell him in awe as I walk into the living room and look around. “Don’t mind me asking, but how do you afford this?”
He grins at me as he shuts the door and hangs up his coat. “Would you believe me if I said I was Bruce Wayne?”
“The rich playboy part of it, yes.”
His lips twist grimly for a second. “Definitely not rich. Just the playboy part, if you want to call it that. Oh and the incognito crime fighter after dark. Just another reason why you shouldn’t be nervous around me.” He walks over to the fridge in the kitchen, which, even though it’s comprised of marble counters and stainless steel appliances, looks like it belongs to a college student. Dishes are piled in the sink even though there’s a dishwasher and crumbs line the counter beside empty beer bottles and discarded cereal boxes.
“Fancy a beer?” he asks, opening the fridge.
I shake my head.
“Not a drinker,” he surmises, bringing the beer out and shutting the door with his foot.
“Actually, I do have the occasional glass of wine but it’s not exactly appropriate for what we’re about to do.”
And by occasional glass, I mean occasional bottle.
He bites his lip through a grin as he smacks the beer cap off the bottle, using the edge of the counter as leverage. “I haven’t heard that one before.”
I sigh, exasperated, and ignore him. “Where should we work?”
He motions to the leather couch with a nod. From the strange way he’s eying me, to the vibe in the room, I’m getting the feeling that this is part of his whole seduction routine. I wonder if that’s all that it takes. Bring the girls here, give them a drink, sit on the couch and pretend to watch Netflix. Next thing they know, they’re getting screwed on the rug.
And probably liking it, I think to myself. I’m pretty sure that any girl that steps into this place knows exactly what she’s getting into, even if she’ll probably never see him again.
I take a seat on the armchair across from him, to make a point that I’m not like the rest of them and I’m here only because I have to be.
If he’s insulted, he doesn’t show it. He brings out his laptop while taking a lengthy swig of his beer. “It’s my stepmother’s,” he says.
I glance at him, confused. “What?”
“The apartment. When I decided to move here and finish my degree at U-Vic, my stepmother was able to rent the apartment for me. I basically pay for it by working at the bookstore.”
“Ah.” I look around. It all makes sense. “So you have a stepmother. When did your parents split up?”
“Oh ages ago,” he says, leaning back on the couch and pulling one foot up across his leg. “I was born here but they split up when I was six or so. My mum and I moved back to England and she remarried. So did my dad.”
“Only child?”
He nods. “I have a stepbrother though, here, Kevin. He’s nine. My mother and Jenson, that’s her husband now, they don’t have any. What about you?”
Even though my curiosity is eager to learn more about him, I’m not about to share an ounce of myself. “I have a sister, my parents are still together.”