Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 84676 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 423(@200wpm)___ 339(@250wpm)___ 282(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84676 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 423(@200wpm)___ 339(@250wpm)___ 282(@300wpm)
We work together to bring all my stuff into my new room. I’ve counted. Two suitcases and nine boxes. Well, I didn’t want to be going back to New Jersey all the time. I’m going to look at my stay here as a vacation. It will certainly be a break from my commute, that’s for sure.
“This is the last one,” he says, carrying the final box into the bedroom. “Where do you want it?” It’s the smallest box there is, only a little bigger than a shoebox.
“Oh, actually, I’ll take that.” It’s all the stuff from my bedside drawer—an eye mask, Tylenol, aromatherapy rollerballs, and my emergency stash of magnesium.
He hands me the box and our fingers brush.
“Ooops,” I say, and then wish I hadn’t acknowledged it. All of a sudden I can feel him everywhere. I’m acutely aware that I’m moving into the apartment of a man who’s incredibly attractive.
The corner of his mouth lifts a little, but he doesn’t say anything. He stares at me for a second, as if he wants to ask a question. “I’m going to order in some food. What do you want?”
“You don’t have any food? Your kitchen is huge.”
“I have some stuff. A housekeeper comes in to stock the basics, but I usually just order in.”
“What basics?” I ask him.
He frowns but turns. I abandon my cardboard box village and follow him out of the bedroom.
“I don’t know, like milk and coffee and stuff.”
“Your kitchen is that huge and you just have milk and coffee?”
“I should know what’s in my kitchen, I guess. But I don’t.”
“I guess there’s no need if you never cook. Can I poke around?” I ask.
He shrugs, but now he follows me as I pad into the kitchen. It’s so… atmospheric. The countertops are a busy gray marble floated on bronze cabinets. I tap one of the doors: it’s metal. Never seen that before.
“This is a proper chef’s kitchen.”
“Well, it would be weird if a place of this size didn’t have a decent kitchen. The people who buy it after me will never cook, but the kitchen will be an important part of their purchase.”
I look up to take in his expression because I’m not sure if he’s joking. His grin travels down my body like a live wire. I look away. He’s exactly that same charming, sexy guy I should have run away from as soon as he introduced himself at the party. Here I am living with him, pretending I’m about to be his wife.
“Did you develop this place?” I ask, trying to keep things about business.
He shakes his head. “I’d never live in one of my developments. If anyone found out, which everyone would, I’d have people banging on the door in the middle of the night to fix their AC.”
I laugh. “You think?” I pull open a drawer to find a beautiful set of saucepans tucked inside like they’ve never been touched.
“Believe me. On my second Manhattan development, I had my unit picked out as soon as we finalized the architect’s plans. I couldn’t wait to get moved in. I kind of resented the fact I had to sell all the units in my first development. They were all a thousand times nicer than the place I was sharing with Fisher. And then I moved in and I didn’t get a moment’s peace. People would knock on my door if their doors squeaked when they opened. It was hell.”
I can’t help but laugh. Leo seems unflappable most of the time, but I can imagine his patience getting tested when people were knocking down his door. “Why didn’t you take a unit in your first development?”
“I didn’t want to cut into my margins. I was… my finances weren’t… I didn’t have the money, basically.”
I look up from where I’m taking in the vast array of kitchen utensils, half of which I couldn’t assign a use to. “I always assumed you came from money, like everyone else in New York real estate.”
He chuckles. “Nope.”
I like that he wasn’t born with money and had to start at the bottom. It makes him… I try to distract myself before I can mentally finish the sentence.
There are plenty of ingredients beyond milk in the fridge. I could whip something up easily. “Are you rich enough now to have a pantry?” I ask.
“If you promise not to judge me.” He waits expectantly for my reply.
“I know you don’t want to hear this, but I’m not a great liar. I don’t make a habit of making promises I can’t deliver, and I can’t promise not to judge you when I don’t know what’s in your pantry. Do you collect the panties of the women you sleep with? Are they displayed there behind glass or something?”
I stop and close my eyes. What am I doing? Leo is my boss, not actually my boyfriend or even friend. I can’t expect him to put up with hearing my inside voice.