Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 103661 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 518(@200wpm)___ 415(@250wpm)___ 346(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103661 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 518(@200wpm)___ 415(@250wpm)___ 346(@300wpm)
Then she pulls back. Turns to Eve. "Enough about us. Tell me about two things. Every step toward keeping your hair that amazing. And this." She motions to Eve's tattoo from The Handmaid's Tale. "The book or the show?"
"The book." Eve shakes her head with distaste. "The show is fine, but the book… it's perfect."
"It's been a long time since I've read it," Jasmine says. "What about it?"
Every last bit of tension fades from Eve's expression. Her eyes light up as she launches into a discussion of her favorite thing. She's bright, animated, moving her hands so fast she nearly knocks over my drink.
Exactly in her element.
Charming the pants off Jasmine. Impressing Shep.
Getting closer and closer to the key she needs to unlock me.
Jasmine and Eve carry the conversation. They're both lovers of literature, even if Jasmine is more partial to plays than novels.
They jump from one classic work to another. Then to more modern pieces. TV. Film.
Shep watches his wife with intense concentration. His blue eyes fill with love and wonder. Like she's the only thing in the universe he wants.
I don't order for Eve—I can tell she doesn't want my friends to see that—but I do point her to the dish she'll like best.
We talk through dessert. Tea. Shep promising to make use of Jasmine's extra energy.
Then goodbye.
The two of us, alone, on a warm summer night.
The air heavy with possibility.
Eve plays with her simple black purse. "I like your friends."
"Even Shep?"
She laughs. "I can tell he's a good friend. I'm glad you have that."
"Do I need it?"
She looks at me with all that curiosity in her grey-green eyes. There's something on the tip of her tongue, but she doesn't say it. "Don't you?"
It's more a statement than a question. Another brush of the key. Another look past my defenses.
I mean to dodge with a joke, but I don't.
"Yes." Lightness spreads through my chest. Then my limbs. Half freedom. Half fear.
I want her too much.
All of her.
I need something I understand. The only fucking thing I understand.
I let my voice drop to a demanding tone. "I need something else now."
She stares back at me.
"I need to make you come."
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Eve
Sleek hardwood floor. Floor-to-ceiling windows. Soft blue New York sky.
Ian's apartment fits him to a T. From the black leather couch to the flat-screen TV to the neat bookshelf.
A stack of blu-rays.
Paperbacks, old and new.
What does he read? What does he watch? Is he inhaling classic literature or modern genre fiction?
Does he sit on that couch watching restrained British dramas or thoughtless action flicks?
One or the other.
The depths of human experience.
Or easy thrills that distract.
I've never really understood the appeal of easy thrills. In theory, sure, I like thrills as much as the next girl.
An exciting mystery about detectives solving a murder? Sign me up.
But it's only exciting if I buy into the world. If the dialogue is sharp and the plot is coherent and the characters are real.
He presses his palm into my lower back, erasing all my thoughts.
TV. Movies. Books.
Him taking off my clothes.
One of these things is much more interesting than the others.
He closes the door. Clicks the lock. "A drink?" He motions to the kitchen in the massive room. All stainless steel appliances. Nothing out of place.
"Let me guess. Fever Tree and some small-batch gin that costs four hundred dollars a bottle."
"Four hundred? You're going to be disappointed by what's in the fridge."
"Two hundred?"
"Less."
I motion to the small kitchen. It's impossibly neat. Sleek. Simple. Elegant. Like everything in the apartment. Everything he wears. "Can I?"
"I don't usually ask guests to do labor."
"You're not asking."
He nods go on.
I step forward, breaking contact, buying a little bit of sense.
I miss his touch immediately. I don't want sense. I want to dissolve in a puddle of desire.
Only…
He asked for thirty days, yes, but did he really want all thirty?
Or was it some way to dance around what are his true intentions?
Is he going to say goodbye as soon as he punches my v-card?
The logical part of my brain tries to argue. So what if he says goodbye? That goodbye comes with four-hundred grand. That's enough to keep warm at night.
My heart hears none of it.
My body?
It doesn't care about tomorrow. Or next week. Or next month.
Only about touching him.
God, I need to touch him.
I move into the kitchen.
It's huge by New York City standards, but that's still pretty small. There are only so many cabinets.
I find the liquor in the one next to the fridge. The cocktail glasses on the shelf below it.
Ice in the freezer. And food too. Ingredients for meals. Not premade dinners or breakfast burritos.
Steaks, bags of shrimp, tightly packed vegetables.
The mint-chip ice cream I love. The non-dairy one.
My chest warms. My stomach gets light. It's here for me. I'm not sure how I know, but I do.