Total pages in book: 63
Estimated words: 59395 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 297(@200wpm)___ 238(@250wpm)___ 198(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 59395 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 297(@200wpm)___ 238(@250wpm)___ 198(@300wpm)
Her lashes lower, dark half circles against her ivory skin, before her eyes are once again fixed on me. “I’m far more complicated than that description and we both know it.”
“Bella—”
“I can handle you, and your grief, Tyler, probably better than you can right now.”
“Like Allison handled me?” I challenge.
“You didn’t kill her.”
“I drove her into the arms of her killer. She worked for me. I had no business touching her.”
“As do I. Which is why we both know you’re safe to let me in.”
“But are you safe?”
“Yes,” she assures me, and she pushes on the bag that still rests between us as if that little bit of nudging will force me to step aside and allow her entry. It doesn’t, and yet I find myself easing away from the door, allowing her to enter my apartment. She’s inside in a flash, and the familiar, sweet scent of jasmine perfume ignites a burn of desire in my body, a problem she simply doesn’t seem to understand. She buries her troubles in a pint of ice cream. I’d rather bury mine in her. I shut the door and flip the lock into place.
Chapter Two
Tyler
By the time I’ve turned back around, the only sign of Bella is her purse and the bag of ice cream sitting on the coffee table.
The sound of riffling about draws my attention toward the archway to my right, which is also my kitchen. Apparently, Bella has made herself right at home, when the only time she was here before was the day after my father died and that was with her brother for all of fifteen minutes.
I follow the sweet scent of her perfume and step into the doorway, bringing her into view as she shuts the silverware drawer. Clearly aware of my presence, she rotates to face me, holding up two spoons. Already I’m thinking of her on the counter, her skirt to her waist, and my cock buried inside her.
Which really does make me my father’s son, and I don’t like it any more than Bella would me if she knew where my head was at right now.
I catch my hands on the curved archway on either side of me and will my blood to cool.
“Bingo,” she announces, waving the spoons around. “I found what I was looking for. You’re very organized, which doesn’t surprise me. You’re ridiculously anal. This kind of perfection would drive me crazy. I need a little disorder to feel at home. Good thing I just work for you.” She walks toward me and stops in front of me. “Please tell me you don’t have a problem eating right out of the pint, because somehow that feels like something someone this anal would not do.”
“I’m not anal. I hire a housekeeper who is.”
“Of course, you do,” she replies, a smirk on her pretty lips before she ducks under my arm.
I fight the urge to reach for her and pull her to me, and that one-second beat that I lose to that internal battle is enough to allow her to escape. In her absence I am left with her words, of course, you do. I’m not sure if that is her way of saying the maid explains nothing, or perhaps, a jab at me for not cleaning my own house. It shouldn’t matter. It wouldn’t with anyone else.
I am not in the right state of mind for her to be here right now.
With a grimace, I push off the archway and rotate, already in pursuit of Bella with every intention of sending her on her way. She’s by the fireplace, and with a flip of a switch, it flashes, flames licking at the glass before they settle into a warm, steady burn. “Perfect,” she approves, kicking off her high heels, then claiming the leather chair to the left of the couch. “Now we’re ready.”
I pause at the line just outside the living room as she removes the first pint of ice cream from the bag, followed by three more, and the damn journal manages to end up in the center of the buffet she’s created. With a silent curse, I move further into the room and sit down on the couch, in front of the table. I consider ignoring the journal, but Bella is not an average guest who would be polite and ignore what is in front of her. She’s the adult version of the curious kid with the ability to be nosey and still come off as charming.
I reach for the journal and shove it between the cushions to my right, while Bella remains on my left. If she notices my actions, she blows it off, her sole focus on convincing me to eat ice cream.
“Okay,” she says. “I have four flavors, all my favorites.” She indicates pints with the touch of her hand. “Milk chocolate peanut butter. Cookies and cream. Key lime pie. And finally.” She taps the final pint. “Cookie dough. I think chocolate peanut butter fits you. It’s rich and complicated.”