Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 81170 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 406(@200wpm)___ 325(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81170 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 406(@200wpm)___ 325(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
“He said ten minutes of talking to her and he knew all he needed to know.” Antonio shrugs. “And now here you are.”
Gazing out the clear glass, into a night-speckled Manhattan that looks like it belongs in a Halcyon painting, I release a dreamy exhalation. While exhaustion sinks into my bones, I know the odds of getting any real rest tonight are slim to none—not that I’m complaining.
Rupert’s words from several weeks back pop into my mind: Everything always works out. It always, always does. Even when we don’t believe that it can. It just does. Life is funny that way.
Antonio drops me off outside a chic hotel with a black awning, a tuxedo-wearing doorman, and a red carpet that stretches out to the sidewalk. Across the street is Central Park, and all along the facade of the building are Juliet balconies.
This is the hotel he wanted to take me to last weekend.
Heading to the door, I greet the doorman with a smile.
“Welcome to the Thornwood,” he says as he opens the door for me. “Enjoy your evening.”
“I plan to,” I tell him as I make my way inside. I don’t stop until I reach the elevator, and while it carries me to the twelfth floor, I swear I must be flying. Every part of me is lighter than the sweetly scented air I breathe.
I follow the signs to room 1217, swipe the key on the lock, and make my way in, where a small table for two is set up by the open balcony.
Roman steps into view, looking every bit as delicious as he did at the exhibit several hours ago. Same silky chocolate hair, shoulder-hugging navy suit coat, and mischievous smirk. Same glint in his eye, one that indicates he’s seconds from devouring me.
“Thought you might be hungry,” he says, motioning toward the covered dishes on the table. Between them is a flickering candle and a small arrangement with three red roses—a nod to our first date.
“I am,” I say. “But it’s a different kind of hunger.”
The hunger of loss and uncertainty.
The hunger of second chances and redemption.
The hunger of desperately wanting to be with someone you never thought you’d see again.
Closing the distance between us, he places one hand on my hip and pulls me against him. The other lifts to my chin, tipping my face until our lips are in perfect alignment. My heart beats hard in my ears, and I drag his musky scent into my lungs until I’m drunk with anticipation.
Lowering his mouth onto mine, he gifts me a punishing kiss—one that indicates he’s not going anywhere ever again.
“You were always meant for me, Sloane,” he whispers, his lips grazing mine.
I kiss him hard, hooking my arms around his neck and holding on with everything I have.
“It’s you,” he says. “It’s you or it’s no one.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
ROMAN
I watch her sleep—and not in any sort of creepy way, though I suppose the act of watching someone when they’re passed out is inherently disconcerting. There’s no romantic way to paint this picture, but I settle against my pillow and watch the sweet faces Sloane makes when she’s dreaming. The twitch of her mouth. The subtle flutter of her eyelashes as she stirs. She even lets out a little chuckle. Whatever dream she’s having, it must be a good one.
Sloane rolls to her back, and the sheet falls below her bare breasts. I pull it up. Not because I don’t appreciate the view—I love the view—but because I don’t want the chilled air-conditioned hotel air to wake her from her peaceful slumber.
The past week has been trying, telling, and a million other things for each of us.
But now we’re here . . .
“Are you . . . watching me?” Sloane rustles, her eyes blinking slowly.
Busted.
“I can’t sleep,” I say.
She frowns, reaching to pull me closer. Settling under my arm, she rests her cheek on my chest.
“What’s wrong?” she asks.
“Nothing.” I kiss the top of her head, breathing in a waft of her vanilla shampoo. “I just want to enjoy this moment. Not ready for it to be over.”
Sloane lifts her head, gazing at the alarm clock on my side table.
“It’s four in the morning,” she says as if I wasn’t aware.
The second she showed up, I wasted no time making up for the week and a half we lost, and when it was over, we took a brief break, feasting on five-star room service food, before going back for round two.
“I love the way I feel when I’m with you,” I say. It hasn’t always been easy for me to talk about my feelings. I’m like an old book with pages glued together by time. But for some reason, whenever I’m with Sloane, it’s as if someone is peeling apart those pages and giving them air for the first time in ages. “I wish I could bottle it up and take it with me everywhere.”