Total pages in book: 78
Estimated words: 77341 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 387(@200wpm)___ 309(@250wpm)___ 258(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77341 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 387(@200wpm)___ 309(@250wpm)___ 258(@300wpm)
“This is a cute little town,” I say, throwing the words out there. I don’t want to lose the six-word progress we’ve made. “Have you always lived here?”
“Yes.”
I groan before letting out a long sigh.
“What?” he asks.
“I didn’t ask to be here with you. To be perfectly clear, I don’t want to be here with you.”
He runs his tongue across his bottom lip. “Why did you come today?”
“Because Jason asked me to take a day trip with him. He said I needed to get out of the office, which is true, and he had a golf outing lined up with Ford Landry. Something happened before we got there, so he changed the plan to swing down here since we were so close.”
“I see.”
“So if having me around is annoying to you or is putting you out in any way, I’m happy to call Renn and—”
“Stop it, Bianca.”
I flinch. “I’m sorry. Have we been apart so long that you forgot that stop it doesn’t go over very well with me?”
His lip twitches.
We turn up a street that slips between a row of thick foliage. A green sign that reads Honeysuckle Lane is tucked under a palm tree.
The truck slows as we creep down the small lane.
Two houses are on each side and two more sit at the end of the cul-de-sac. Each home is adorable—something out of a movie—with hanging flowers on porches and tidy landscaping. A large metal rooster has been placed in one yard. But before I can ask about it, three chickens race from one side of the street to the other. They barely miss the front of the truck.
“I was trying not to talk to you,” I say, chuckling. “But I have so many questions.”
“Banks.”
I wait for an elaboration that doesn’t come.
He reaches up and presses a button. Moments later, a garage door on one of the homes at the end of the circle rises. The truck engine roars as we pull into the driveway and coast into the open bay. He turns the truck off.
“Home sweet home,” he mumbles, climbing out the driver’s side door.
“Okay then …”
I exhale as I get out of the truck and close the door behind me.
The garage is neat, with everything in its place. Tools hang on the walls. Totes are clearly labeled and sit evenly on shelves along the back wall. Hooks hang by the entrance to the house with an array of keys hanging off them.
“I expected no less,” I say, mostly to myself. But Foxx hears me.
“Expected no less of what?”
I motion toward the totes. “You’re very organized, Mr. Carmichael.”
“Thank you for noticing.”
What? I laugh, following him into the house.
I’ve imagined what Foxx’s home looks like a million times. Sometimes, I think of it as a blood-red dungeon with whips and handcuffs. Other times, it’s dark and moody. It’s even light gray with midnight blues and deep greens on occasion. But none of those could be further from the truth.
“Oh, I love this,” I say, entering the kitchen. “This is beautiful.”
I spin in a circle to take it all in.
The dark, bold hardwood floors pop against the warm white walls. The cabinetry is dark with gold fixtures and is capped off with white stone countertops. A window overlooks the backyard. On either side are floating shelves with white dinnerware sitting atop them.
“This is … not what I had in mind,” I say, a laugh in my tone.
“What did you have in mind?”
“Let’s just say this room feels like it belongs to someone happy.”
I stop moving and face him. He’s leaning against the wall, watching me.
Oh, wow.
I’ve never seen him like this. Comfortable. Loose. In his element, as opposed to being in mine. What a sight it is to behold.
The lines on his face have eased, giving him an almost playful look. His hair is messy, and a smile toys against his lips. He’s fighting it, of course—he’s still Foxx—but I can see the hint of humor just behind his mask.
“Do you think I’m not happy?” he asks, lifting a brow.
“Well, I suppose we all define happiness a little differently, don’t we?” I move deeper into the kitchen to investigate the massive stove. “Did you do all this? Or was it like this when you moved in?”
“Dad and I renovated the house. My parents bought all the houses on this street as they came up for sale so their kids could live close to them. They clearly have separation issues.”
I laugh. “That’s better than my parents’ issues. My father seems to be a player in the underworld, and my mother couldn’t wait to get us out of the house. But, then again, by the time she got to Tate, she had to be exhausted.” I look up at him. “How many siblings do you have?”
“Too fucking many.”
“That’s not a number.”