Total pages in book: 211
Estimated words: 201554 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1008(@200wpm)___ 806(@250wpm)___ 672(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 201554 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1008(@200wpm)___ 806(@250wpm)___ 672(@300wpm)
He casts me a sideways look. “I’m right here. Just ask me.”
“As if you’re that approachable.”
“I am,” he says, glancing over at me again. “Tonight, I am.”
“Why tonight?”
“It’s time.” He doesn’t give me a chance to press again. “Why does Cherry Creek remind you of New York City?”
“We lived in a tiny pocket of the city there. Everything we wanted was in a small space. Cherry Creek is like that in that everything is right there, within reach, minus the smog, rats, and crush of people. It’s quaint and safe, hidden from the rest of the city in so many ways.”
“It’s the hidden part I liked,” he says. “It’s like a small city boxed off from the rest of the city.”
“Yes,” I say. “One hundred percent yes.” Then I dare to test his open book. “So, after your undergrad, you went off to Harvard?”
“Yes. And then I went off to Harvard before joining the Navy. And yes, that’s a complicated story.” He turns us into the Cherry Creek neighborhood. “And yes, you can ask me about it while we eat.”
“I will,” I say, “and actually, I live two blocks from the restaurant. You can park there if you like. Though, I guess if you’re at the Marriott, North is practically next door.”
“I’m at the Marriott, but I’ll park at your place.” He doesn’t ask me where I live. He just cuts right and then left and pulls into the driveway of my gray-finished house, then around to the back. “The address was in your file and I have a photographic memory.”
I look at him. “As in literally?”
“Yes. Literally.” He opens his door. “I’ll come around to get you.” He exits the car and I hear the trunk pop. I open my door and by the time I’ve settled my legs on the ground, he’s in a sleek black leather jacket, and pulling me to my feet and to him.
He shuts the door, and I end up against the car with his hand on the side of my face, this warm, intimate blanket surrounding us, consuming us. There are no lies, no doubts, no divide. There is just this crazy, hot connection we’ve always shared. “I’m going to have to kiss you now, Harper.” His mouth comes down on mine, his tongue pressing past my teeth in a slow, deep stroke that has me gripping his jacket and leaning into him.
He eases back, his mouth just a breath from mine, lingering there before a band seems to snap between us and we’re kissing again, and this time he doesn’t hold back. He kisses me deeply, completely and when I whimper with just how much I need more, he pulls back. “Let’s go eat, sweetheart. We need to talk and we won’t talk if we walk in your door.”
“Sweetheart? Not princess?”
His hands go to the lapels on my trench coat. “You were right. I use it to divide us. No more princess.”
“Why? What changed?”
“You hit a few hotspots back there in the car. This place makes me become way too much like my father and my brother for my own liking, and I’m certain, yours. They taught me to distrust and attack. The SEALs and the Bennett family taught me to reserve judgment and give people the benefit of the doubt. I prefer that version of me.”
“Meaning me? You’re going to give me the benefit of the doubt?”
“Yes.” He strokes my hair behind my ear, and despite the chill of the night, his touch is fire. “You. Definitely you, but I don’t trust my judgment with you, Harper. I’m way too invested.”
“Invested?”
“You know I am or I wouldn’t be here.”
“You have a lot to be invested in here that isn’t me.”
“Nothing I want to be invested in but you.”
“But you—”
“Left. I know. And as I said, I’m here now. This time is different.”
“Despite all of your anger, I do believe it is.”
“We’ll talk about my anger. We’ll talk about a lot of things.” And with that coded promise, he wraps his arm around my shoulders and turns me toward the front of the house. “Let’s go get that pasta.”
He sets us in motion and for a short bit, we stroll the path to the restaurant in what is surprisingly comfortable silence. “Tell me about Harvard.”
“I got into some trouble when my mother was sick. We had money issues and I shoplifted. It fucked up my academic history.”
I’m stunned at this confession and I want to ask about it, but we’ve reached the door of the restaurant. He opens the door for me and we’re greeted by a hostess that takes our coats and promptly escorts us to a half-moon-shaped booth. I slide in one side as Eric goes to the other and when I think we’ll sit across from each other, he scoots all the way around and pulls me close, his hand on my leg.