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)
“When you sign a lease, you promise to pay the rent on time, so technically—”
“Oh, Raymond!” Laughing, she reached down from her perch on the stairs to tickle his chin, watching a red flush spread up to the bald patch on the crown of his head. “You’re such a stickler for the rules. I love that about you.”
“You do?”
“Yes.” She pressed both hands to her heart. “We need more people like you in this world. There would be less chaos.”
“Meanwhile,” he mumbled, still blushing, “the chaos is coming from people like you.”
Considering his tone had lost a considerable amount of its bite, Chloe chose to laugh at that. “Well, somebody has to do it, right?”
A grudging smile from the landlord. “I guess so, Ms. Chloe.”
Crisis averted. “I have to run now, Raymond,” she called down to the landlord while jogging up the stairs. “I have an appointment with my new mentor in half an hour and I’m going to be late.”
“I’m sure you’ll manage to talk your way out of it!” he shouted up at her.
Chloe unlocked the door to her apartment and hip bumped it open, throwing her purse onto the kitchen table and running for the bedroom. She probably could have just remained downtown and killed time between conservatory and the first meeting with her mentor, but she wanted to come home, freshen up, and change, so she could put her best foot forward. Unfortunately, she was about as good with time management as she was with money management. In other words: stone-cold rotten.
“You can still make it on time. Just change and go,” she murmured to herself, already undressing on her way into the bedroom. Her line of sight was compromised by the shirt she pulled off over her head, but as soon as she lowered it, her footsteps came to an abrupt halt.
Laying on the bed was a blouse.
Not just any blouse, though. Her lucky blouse.
Slowly, her hands raised to cover her mouth, the air in the room turning heavy, the pulse in her temples beating faster. Louder. The muscles of her throat drew in on themselves and she couldn’t manage a swallow. There was only one explanation for the blouse being here, in her bedroom in Boston, but she took a giant sniff of the air to compound her theory, letting Sig’s pepper-and-clove scent coast down the walls of her lungs, electricity spreading to her fingertips.
Blindfold her and set her loose in a room with ten thousand people and she would find him every single time. Those were the signature aromas he’d left to signal he’d been there.
Sig had gone to Darien last night to retrieve her lucky blouse.
Six, maybe seven hours of driving. More if there was traffic. And all that after she’d told him they should start dating other people. Not to mention, he’d only finished competing in a little something called a professional hockey game.
Chloe’s heart pumped so fast, so furiously, she worried the tempo might be dangerous.
Why did he continue to give her reasons to be in love with him when it hurt so badly?
A lucky blouse was such a silly, superstitious thing, but he’d recognized it was important to her. Sig took her seriously. He listened to her. He delivered. Every single time. A rock-solid presence in her life that never failed her. Ever. Meanwhile, she continuously asked for advice, groceries, and extra rent money.
Chloe crept forward toward the blouse and picked it up, finding the front pocket slightly raised. She tucked her fingers inside of the silk and removed a folded note.
I’m sorry, dream girl.
Go knock them dead.
A wounded sound left her, accompanied by a whoosh of breath and she simply spun into motion, unbuttoning the black-and-white blouse, putting it on, and refastening the buttons at top speed. It was either move as fast as possible or stand stationary for the rest of her life, bleeding internally over what he’d done. The gesture, the note, his scent, the fact that he’d been in her bedroom while she wasn’t home. The fact that he’d called her dream girl, a nickname he’d started calling her the night they met.
If she didn’t move, move, move and get out of her apartment, she’d lie down and die, because love was meant to be a glorious thing, but sometimes she wondered if loving someone and not being able to acknowledge and act on it could suffocate her to death.
A few minutes later, Chloe was dressed. She tossed the mail out of her purse onto the table, shouldered her purse, and tapped down the stairs in a low pair of heels, all while calling an Uber. Any other afternoon, she would take public transportation, but she was already going to be late at this point and any delays would cause her to miss the meeting entirely.