Total pages in book: 47
Estimated words: 43653 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 218(@200wpm)___ 175(@250wpm)___ 146(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 43653 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 218(@200wpm)___ 175(@250wpm)___ 146(@300wpm)
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Evie
I walk into the lobby of a nondescript building on the Upper West Side. The big gray building is mere blocks from Spencer Prep. Within walking distance, actually. I stride in, surprised to see a doorman in a blue and red uniform waiting just inside the foyer. My brows scrunch as I frown. That’s weird. I didn’t know teachers could afford doorman buildings in NYC.
Nonetheless, I nod at the old man, friendly and unassuming.
“Hi,” I greet. “I’m Evie, here to see Stone Phillips.”
He automatically turns to a phone on the wall, picking up the receiver with a gloved hand.
“Mr. Phillips, an Evie in the lobby,” he says into the phone before listening intently.
His phrasing sounds off. “An Evie in the lobby?” Are there Amandas, Claires, Maggies, and Joans waiting in the lobby as well? But I brush it off. The old dude is probably just cranky and tired from working all day.
“Go right on up,” he announces, his wrinkled face inscrutable. I nod, walking to the gleaming metal doors. The elevator itself is nothing – a little worn around the edges with a bit of dirt caked in the corners.
But when I arrive on the eighth floor, I gape a little. The hallway to Stone’s apartment is really nicely done, with gleaming parquet floors and a chandelier. Facets of light sparkle everywhere. It’s a little fancy for an anonymous building on the Upper West, especially for someone on a teacher’s budget. Spencer Prep is a ritzy private school, but I don’t think they pay that well.
Plus, there are no other doors on this floor; Stone’s front door is the only one. How weird. Where do his neighbors live? Or do they have hidden entrances? Shrugging, I shoot one last look around, too excited to pay much attention.
When Mr. Phillips answers the door, his dark hair ruffled and his blue eyes gleaming, I almost melt because he is so cute. Like gorgeous, hot, and sexy cute. The man is wearing an apron over a gray t-shirt that hugs his chest and jeans that emphasize the length of his legs and his muscular thighs. My internal temperature immediately zooms up ten degrees. My cunt grows moist, and my knees feel a little weak, but I make myself stay calm.
“Nice apron,” I compliment sassily, smiling brightly as I look him up and down.
The big man just drags me in and shuts the door before leaning down for a deep kiss.
I’m breathless by the time he backs off. His strong arms are cradling me, making me go weak inside.
“I know, right?” Stone mutters, lifting an eyebrow. His nostrils flare slightly as his chest heaves a bit, and I realize that he is just as affected as I am. “You’d love to see me in nothing but this apron, wouldn’t you?” he jokes.
I have to laugh then because although I am dying to see him naked already, the apron is silly. The garment is straight out of the fifties, a black and white gingham print with a giant lobster on it that says ‘Fill ‘er up!’
“What does that mean, even?” I ask, giggling again. “Why would a lobster say ‘fill ‘er up’?”
But Stone just shrugs, a twinkle in his eye.
“Who knows?” he replies gamely. “My mom gave it to me; it’s her idea of humor.”
“Oh! Your mom likes kitschy stuff?” I ask curiously. “Like random knick-knacks and cheesy souvenirs?”
His face darkens for a moment before the cloud passes. I blink, unsure if it had only been my imagination.
“My mom likes a lot of things, and this apron caught her fancy. Who knows what she was thinking? She’s pushing sixty already and probably has a couple of loose screws,” he says with a wink.
I want to ask more, to ask about his family – what they are like and what they do when they get together – but Stone is already striding toward the kitchen, pulling me along behind him, his big hand warm on mine.
“Come on. You can help me cook,” he announces. “I’m just putting the finishing touches on this roast chicken.”
I gasp when I stepped into the brightly lit space. It is done up like a chef’s kitchen; no expense has been spared. Beautiful blue and white tiles line the walls, and there is a huge sub-zero fridge, as well as two counter islands which could seat seven or eight each.
“You like to cook, I see,” I whisper softly, awed by the luxury. My eyes are wide as I gaze around.
Mr. Phillips takes me in his arms and bends to give me another kiss before swatting me on the ass and handing me a bunch of carrots.
“I love cooking,” he confirms. “Now, wash these babies. I’m going to toss them in the oven before they go in your little mouth,” he winks.
Obediently, I begin scrubbing the carrots in the farmhouse sink. The giant silver square is almost as big as a tub.