Total pages in book: 144
Estimated words: 133138 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 666(@200wpm)___ 533(@250wpm)___ 444(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 133138 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 666(@200wpm)___ 533(@250wpm)___ 444(@300wpm)
“What? I didn’t know that,” she says in surprise.
I take a deep breath, steadying my racing heart. “Not many do. It’s not that I hide it, exactly, but I don’t speak of it either.”
Autumn reaches over, placing her hand on my thigh comfortingly. “Simon . . . you don’t need to, but if you want to talk about it, I’m here.”
Pain clenches in my chest, and I know I want to tell her. But at the same time . . . the stories Jacqueline have told me are heavy, and tonight has been a lot already. “Not now. I . . . not yet.”
Quiet fills the car, and for a minute we say nothing. There’s only the rumbling of the engine and the tires on the road, Autumn’s hand on my thigh, and the sound of our breathing. Finally, she speaks again. “Thank you for showing me this.”
I nod, feeling in control again. As we head back toward Autumn’s apartment, I shift the conversation to something lighter. “I know we said we would discuss work, but we can go over the edits another time.”
“No . . . I want to see more,” Autumn declares.
I don’t understand her, so I ask, “More of what?”
She clears her throat and moves her hand one small inch higher on my thigh. “You.”
I turn at the next intersection, heading not toward her apartment . . . but mine.
CHAPTER 12
AUTUMN
I saw Paris, in her most beautiful and in her most desperate. The image of a young child climbing out of a cardboard box shelter while the lights from the Eiffel Tower were illuminating the night will sit with me for the rest of my life.
I’m also completely thrown by what Simon shared about his own life. I did my homework on House Corbin and never read a single thing about how Simon ended up with his aunt. And certainly not anything that would make me think he’d have a soft spot for people in need.
I feel like my preconceived notions of both Paris and Simon have been shattered. But rather than that being a loss, I think it’s a good thing. I didn’t realize that my vision was so fogged over and hazy until I saw things more clearly tonight.
And like Paris, I want to learn more about Simon.
I’m quiet as he puts the pedal to the metal, contemplating. The wind ruffles my hair as we reach a neighborhood that, on the surface, looks much like the ones we just left. It’s only when you look at the details, like the total lack of garbage on the streets and of course, no signs of unhoused people, that I realize this area is very upper class.
Simon hits a button, and a gate rolls up on a parking area next to an older building, and he pulls in to park. He puts the top up and silently offers me his arm as we enter, taking a rather regular elevator up to the top floor.
Upstairs, I stop him. “Before we go in, I want you to know . . . I’m not sleeping with you.”
Rather than being upset or pressuring me, he laughs. “I didn’t ask you to, but . . .” He moves in closer to me, the weight of his body not touching me but feeling heavy, nonetheless. “It’s good to know where your mind is.”
I duck out from under his suggestive gaze, and he moves to open the door. “Here we are, ladies first.”
The apartment, or penthouse, or whatever this is, isn’t at all what I expected. I figured a guy like Simon would be all cutting edge, modern and hard, glam and cold. Instead, it’s more natural, with wood and brick, plaster and paint.
It’s like an extremely upsized version of my current apartment, and I can’t help but smile at the charming feel of his home. “Wow, this is—”
My words are cut off as a flying ball of fur comes across the floor, aiming straight for my legs, with loud yips that sound like ‘I’m going to kill you.’ I panic, stumbling as I take several steps back. Unfortunately, there’s a door behind me which stops my backward progress, but my feet don’t get that message and continue backpedaling crazily to get away. In the wild kicks of my scurrying feet, I end up catching the little dog in the chest, sending it flying backward.
“Arf!” it barks.
“Oh, God, I’m so sorry!” I cry in horror as Simon steadies me, keeping me from hitting the floor. “I didn’t mean to yeet your dog across the room!”
“Yeet?” Simon echoes as he rushes over to his dog, who looks a little dazed but otherwise unhurt. He scoops it up, and it promptly growls at me. “Quiet, Xerxes.”
“Yeet,” I repeat, approaching carefully with my hand out so the dog can sniff me. “It means like to punt or throw.”