Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 78867 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 394(@200wpm)___ 315(@250wpm)___ 263(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78867 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 394(@200wpm)___ 315(@250wpm)___ 263(@300wpm)
The SUV rolls to a stop, thankfully pulling my mind out of the black hole it was beginning to dive into.
“Whose house is this?” I look over at my childhood friend.
“Mine.” He looks out the window as if trying to see things differently, as if he’s curious about what I think.
“It’s lovely,” I tell him, letting my eyes sweep over the expansive front porch and manicured lawn. “Big.”
He chuckles, waving a hand to indicate that he wants me to climb out.
Opening my door, I look back at him. “I thought we were going to lunch?”
“Greta makes a better meal than any place we’ll find in town.” He climbs out behind me, making sure to sweep his hands down the lapel of his expensive suit jacket.
He’s different. I noticed it the second I saw him in the grocery store, but there’s more to it than nice clothes and a haircut that doesn’t allow his bangs to fall into his eyes like they did when we were younger.
There’s a mystery to him that makes my lips want to quirk up in a smile. I’m honestly happy for my friend and his success.
“Greta? Is that your wife?”
He asked me about my life, but never gave any information about his own. Only now do I find that a little strange. Most people ask questions so they can answer them themselves.
He chuckles as if my question is insane. “Greta is a servant.”
I tilt my head to the side, but before I can open my mouth to ask a million more questions, he presses his palm to my back, urging me toward the front door.
My body takes the time to separate the feel of it and how it doesn’t even compare to the way I felt when Spade did the same.
I don’t know why after him explaining Greta’s role in his life that I expected to be greeted at the door with a man wearing a suit with tails, but the expansive entryway is silent when we enter.
Will takes my coat, not a hint of shyness in his eyes as he sweeps his gaze down the length of me. We dated briefly in high school, but I never felt a real connection to him. Big Daddy was adamant that I focus on school. Keeping my grades up meant my escape from Telluride, and it left little time for much else.
“Mr. Varon.”
“We’ll take our lunch in the dining room, Greta.”
The small-framed woman gives a quick nod, eyes downcast the entire time before turning around and disappearing through a doorway.
He mentioned being in real estate, but this goes a little further than that. Or maybe I’m just being judgmental again like I have been with Naomi. Maybe he’s a guy that never learned to cook, and he prefers to eat things at home rather than having takeout or dine-in all the time. Maybe he budgets for help at home rather than having so much money that having house staff isn’t a big deal.
What I do know is that other than catered events, I’ve never known anyone wealthy enough to have staff.
Will points to a spot to the left of the chair he’s walking to, and I have to smile at how commanding he is now. It’s a drastic change from the shy kid whose cheeks turned pink every time he looked at my mouth when I spoke. I imagine things would’ve been a lot different between the two of us if he was more assertive then, but now in my thirties, I’m honestly not a fan of the high-handed behavior.
I do take the seat he offers, wondering as I lower myself to the cushioned seat if Spade would’ve made an effort to pull it out for me.
I seriously need to get that man out of my head. Of course he wouldn’t act so gentlemanly.
You sure?
I shake my head to get the image of his thumbs in his boxer briefs earlier to disappear. His devious smirk was more than a little disarming, but I knew he was a charmer the night I met him. Nothing has changed. He’s still an asshole.
“What’s wrong?”
“Hmm?” I look up at Will.
“You have this sneer on your face. Is the dining table not to your liking?”
I look around the room, really taking it in for the first time. The white tablecloth has a silky, expensive feel to it. I’ve never understood white linens at a table, but maybe that’s because I’m economical and stains aren’t something I’m willing to deal with. Paintings with ornate frames line the walls, Grecian columns reaching up to the high ceilings. The double chandeliers hanging above us are spotless, not a hint of dust in sight.
“It’s lovely,” I finally answer because I can’t really say much else without it sounding like a complaint, and truly, who complains about a room being too clean?