Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 95606 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 478(@200wpm)___ 382(@250wpm)___ 319(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 95606 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 478(@200wpm)___ 382(@250wpm)___ 319(@300wpm)
They looked across the cab of the truck at each other with stark acknowledgment in their eyes, as if they’d both made it at the same moment, albeit very reluctantly. It couldn’t be. They couldn’t be. And then they both went back to staring out at the road, regret filling the air that separated them, Sig’s heart heavier than an anvil in his chest.
Chapter Four
One week later
Sig slowed to a stop and waited in the hallway, watching Chloe disappear into the apartment, the sound of her happily chatting with the Realtor echoing down the polished stairs. Golden sconces glinted on the walls. Piano music drifted down somewhere from the top floor. A woman pushed a noticeably expensive baby carriage into the lobby below and he watched both doors lock behind the woman soundly, securely, exactly as they would behind Chloe.
They’d looked at an apartment in a different part of town prior to this and there’d only been one door separating the lobby from the street. Not to mention, the apartment was on the ground floor. He’d all but carried a protesting Chloe out of there over his shoulder.
This was more like it.
He’d sleep at night with her in this place.
And it was going to cost him a fortune. On a monthly basis. Already, the five-star hotel he’d put her in since arriving in Boston would have been enough to buy him a new truck, but he’d loved picking her up out front, watching her emerge from the glittering lobby while a man in a starched uniform held the door open for her. Giving her that experience, that security, made him feel accomplished. Made his blood pump with purpose.
Doing mental math, Sig took two steps and tested the railing with a shake, making sure it didn’t wobble, then he entered the apartment behind the pair of women.
Two dead bolts on the door. Good.
Sig paused between the entrance and the living room, trying his best to see the sizable sunlit space, the high ceilings, the chef’s kitchen, the view of the North End neighborhood. But all he could see were the marble columns and cherubs and sweeping staircases of her home in Darien. This apartment was only a fraction of the size in comparison—
“Sig!” Chloe cried out from one of the bedrooms. “Come look!”
He went without thinking, wanting to see what got her so excited. When he found her in the master bedroom, she was pulling open a large drawer that appeared to be hinged to the wall. “What is it?” he asked.
“It’s a laundry chute,” answered the Realtor. “She’ll have a designated space in the basement where her clothes will compile until they’re ready to be washed. It’s an old-fashioned fixture, but one the residents love. It will save her from having to carry a heavy bag up and down the stairs from the basement.”
Basement? “There’s no washer-dryer in the apartment?”
“It’s a landmark building. There are certain plumbing restrictions.”
“Yeah, Chloe,” Sig said, shaking his head. “I don’t know . . .”
“Hellooo,” Chloe called down the shoot. “Is anyone home?” With a laugh, she closed the drawer and straightened, directing her attention at the Realtor. “Who does the laundry once it’s down there?”
The Realtor blinked at her. Seconds ticked by. “Uh. You do.”
Chloe was incredulous, but also . . . visibly thrilled. “Really?”
“Y-yes.”
Sig almost lost his train of thought in the face of her excitement. “I don’t like the sound of her in the basement.”
“I do,” Chloe countered. “I’ve never been in one.”
“I assure you, it’s secure. And very elegant.”
Chloe looked crestfallen. “Oh.”
Sig would be confirming that before any paperwork was signed. “Let’s talk, Chlo,” Sig said, dipping his chin toward the hallway, indicating that Chloe should follow him. A few seconds later, they were alone in the kitchen, Chloe moving from cabinet to drawer to sink like a ricocheting beam of light. He had to hook an arm around her waist to cease her movements, drawing her to a stop in front of him. Close enough that he could look down into her face and trace the rim of black around her blue irises. But he buried the urge to trace her cheekbone with his knuckle. To lower his mouth to hers and sip at it, nuzzle it, kiss it.
He did none of that, but he’d been fighting the battle all week.
Would it ever get easier?
This week, every moment of daylight he’d been afforded between practice and games had belonged to Chloe. Going over the train route she would take to Berklee. Taking her to meet her new instructors. Eating meals together. Taking her to Sephora for the first time—a two-hour ordeal he’d pretended to hate, but handing over his credit card and purchasing a bunch of goop and sparkles had earned him a bouncing hug that he could still feel. That he never wanted to stop feeling.