Total pages in book: 133
Estimated words: 122946 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 615(@200wpm)___ 492(@250wpm)___ 410(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 122946 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 615(@200wpm)___ 492(@250wpm)___ 410(@300wpm)
“It really is nice,” I whispered, shivering at how nice the silk felt against my skin. I hadn’t realized how comfortable I had gotten with the rough feel of cotton. This felt like I was wearing nothing at all.
Was that why he wanted me to wear it.
“May I see?” he asked, obviously hearing me despite how low I had whispered. “Or shall you never come out to face me again.”
“You think very highly of yourself, Mr. Thorbørn. I wasn’t avoiding you. I was in love with the shower. It stays hot, so I could stay in longer,” I replied and rolled my eyes as I opened the door.
He stood near the edge of the bed on the opposite side of the waterfall across the room, the city lights behind him. My view of was him was distorted by the water. But I could tell he was wearing 1920s-era formal dress. The jacket was high with tails in the back. It had white collars and a vest, along with the white bow tie. His wavy black hair was tussled, which upended the look a bit. He’d even shaved off his five o’clock shadow. He looked dashing like a prince or some great lord.
“I regret not taking my chance when it was offered,” he spoke, drawing my attention to his face, his eyes staring only at my body.
A sense of pride filled me, knowing he meant it. I didn’t understand my emotions for and toward him, but I wasn’t going to figure it out now.
“Is that code for you like it?” I asked, glancing down at my dress.
“That word like is not strong enough,” he said, offering his hand, and I took it. Instead of kissing it, he brought me closer and put his hand on my waist. “Aphrodite would weep in jealousy of your beauty.”
“How many women have you seduced with talk like that?” I grinned, reaching up to adjust his bow tie.
“I do not know. For I can’t think of any other woman but you. Did women exist before you?”
I bit my lip to stop from smiling. He knew sweet talk for sure. And I was sucker just basking in it.
“Thank you,” I said, slowly looking over his attire. “Now, on to you. This outfit…”
“Is not of the correct times?” he asked, and I nodded. “Yes, I figured, but it was what I wore when I first came here. Apparently, I have not had time to update my international wardrobe.”
“You stayed in this room?” I asked, surprised. “Wait, this building was here in 1920?”
“Apparently, though I doubt this place looked exactly the same. However, what is more important is that I left things behind, which is not normal for me. I do not leave things with those not of my family. So, either I trusted Taelon more than I can understand or something happened. But what could it have been?” He moved, shifting so I could see the things on the bed. There was a black, engraved pen, a golden pocket watch on a chain that was still ticking, as well as a leather-bound notebook with a worn cover, which he lifted and gave to me.
When I opened the notebook, there were a few short notes, but they were written in Greek. Flipping the pages, I saw what he saw, Montréal through his eyes. He had sketched people and places, streets, even a cat sitting on a bench outside of a shop.
“Lucy and I went to that bakery.” I grinned, shocked and proud that it still existed. I kept flipping, turning the book every which way to see the work better. “This is why I love art. No matter the language barrier between people, no matter how many years have gone by, it doesn’t expire or lose its wonder. It connects us and makes us feel as if we were right there, too. I always feel like we never thank artists enough. They preserved a world by hand before cameras did. They show us so much of the world and their thoughts on it. Like this.” I pointed, looking back up at him to find him smiling as he watched me. “Sorry, I’m rambling.”
“No, I beg of you, go on. What of this?” he asked, looking down at the page I pointed to. “It is of two wealthy women about to step out of their car.”
“Yes, but look where you drew the woman’s gaze.” I followed it across the page. “She is gazing at the driver, her hand just about touching him. We can’t see the driver’s face because his head is down, but we can see the corner of his mouth. He’s smiling. It makes me think they might be lovers.”
“Or friends,” he shot back.
“Or friends,” I repeated, dissatisfied. “Though I prefer lovers, and seeing as how you can’t remember it’s up to the viewer to decide.”