Total pages in book: 15
Estimated words: 14578 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 73(@200wpm)___ 58(@250wpm)___ 49(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 14578 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 73(@200wpm)___ 58(@250wpm)___ 49(@300wpm)
“It is. Were you expecting something different?” His expression is unreadable. “It’s been home for quite some time and I like it here.”
“No, I mean, yes,” I blurt out and then huff. “I don’t know. You’re more than meets the eye. I honestly don’t know what to expect with you.”
His body relaxes. “Careful when you get out. It’s icy.”
Warmth shoots through me at his concerned words. That is, until he arrives at my door to open it for me, sending frigid air in to assault me. I groan against the cold, shivering as I get out and wait for him to hand me my backpack. We trek into the building at warp speed, eager to get the hell out of the elements. As soon as we enter the building, I realize it has a homey feel. Sure, the outside is run-down a bit, but inside it’s well-kept and has lovely historical architectural details like the thick crown molding near the ceiling to the rustic hardwoods. He guides me to a stairwell and we climb three flights. By the time he ushers me to his apartment, I’m breathing heavily, no longer chilled.
“This is it,” he says, unlocking the door and opening it. “Just set your stuff down anywhere.”
I close the door behind me and turn the lock, inspecting the space with curious eyes. It’s a studio apartment. Small and cluttered with tiny clues of his personality. Books are stacked everywhere. Framed pictures of him with what must be his family are crammed wherever they’ll fit. And when a jingling bell rings and a black cat trots my way, I’m shocked to say the least.
“You don’t strike me as an animal person,” I say, squatting to pet the cat.
“Night makes it not seem so lonely.”
His words are sad. Gutting even. I drag my stare up to watch him shed his coat. Adrian Frost seems too large for this tiny space. He makes millions, so why does he settle for this tiny apartment? When he begins to undress, I stand and avert my eyes. It’s not like he has the privacy of a bedroom since the apartment is essentially one big room. Even the bathroom isn’t really private, a curtain the only barrier. I take my backpack off, setting it on the floor by the door, and then hang my coat on the rack.
“I can make breakfast if you’d like,” he says, drawing my attention to his bare, muscular back as he pulls a T-shirt down over his body. “French toast is my favorite. I have about a hundred variations of it.”
I’ve stepped into a parallel universe.
My mind can’t converge the bossy Mr. Frosty with this warm, cluttered lonely French toast loving man.
“Make whatever you like. I’m easy to please.”
He looks my way, heat burning in his blue-gray eyes. “I really like those clothes.”
A smile tugs at my lips. His random statements are jarring but also warming. It makes me feel noticed and wanted.
“I like those too,” I utter, my voice hoarse as I settle my gaze on the way his T-shirt seems to mold around his impressive physique. The gray sweatpants are just torture on the eyes because I have an intense craving to peel them off his muscular body with my teeth.
“Have a seat. I’ll grab you something to drink while I cook.” He saunters into the open kitchen and begins rummaging around in his fridge.
I kick off my shoes and make my way into the kitchen. A tiny two-chair bistro table is nestled in the corner near the stove. There’s barely room for him to prepare a proper meal. Again, I’m confused by his living arrangements.
“Do you need help?”
He shakes his head. “Nope.”
I’m amused when he fills two champagne flutes with orange juice. He splashes vodka into each one before handing me one. I sip the drink, thankful to have something to take the edge off. He moves with practiced ease as he prepares the meal.
“I don’t mean to stereotype, but you’re so successful. This seems like the type of apartment I would own, not you.” I chew on my bottom lip, hoping I don’t sound like a brat. “I want to understand you.”
The tension my words created in him releases as he sighs. “It’s a long story.”
“I have time.”
He darts his icy eyes my way, cutting them into me as though he can find lies there and pull them out. “You tell me about your parents’ magazine first.”
“I loved it,” I say with a nostalgic smile. “It was my life. I had big dreams for it, though Dad never took them seriously.”
“Like what?”
“I just thought we could be more successful if we took it to a vacation town. One where we could capitalize on the vacation season tourists stories, writeups on restaurants and bars and shops. Social magazines are becoming obsolete, so I wanted to become a boutique magazine focused on a niche. I just felt like it would sell better.”