Total pages in book: 78
Estimated words: 78164 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78164 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
“Hi,” I say, though it’s more of a question than a greeting.
“Good evening. Your name, please.”
“Aurora Johnson. I’m here to see Tate Brewer.”
He lifts his collar to his mouth, pauses, and then turns back to me. The gates slowly swing open.
“Enjoy your evening, Ms. Johnson,” he says.
“Thanks.”
I roll up my window and proceed down the driveway, taking the bends and curves, until the forest on both sides finally cuts away.
Holy hell.
Jamie pointed out that Tate was a billionaire, but I didn’t give it much thought. That might’ve been a mistake because the house standing in front of me is the kind of place you see on an architectural show of award-winning designs.
The last rays of sunlight streak through the sky behind the towering structure. A blend of brick, wood, and stucco marries seamlessly on the facade, and a long porch stretches along most of the front. All that’s missing is a porch swing—and maybe a dog.
I survey the scene and try to decide where to park. There’s the front door, but there’s also an open garage door on the side of the house. I have no idea which one I’m supposed to use.
Making an executive decision, I park at the end of the sidewalk leading to the porch.
I turn the car off and get out, locking it behind me. My heart pounds harder with each step I take up the walkway. There’s no going back from this. If I go inside his home, things between us go from being a version of fuck buddies to something more real.
I gulp.
Just as I get to the bottom of the steps, the front door opens, and all of my nerves disappear.
Tate stands in the doorway with his shirt unbuttoned. His hair is messy from having my hands in it. He flashes me a bright, easy smile—the kind of smile that you see on people in advertisements where they’re pretending to be happy.
Only, this isn’t an ad.
“You found it,” he says, holding his arms wide.
I nearly jog up the remaining steps and launch myself into his chest. “What do you mean I found it? It’s impossible to miss.”
He wraps me up and holds me close, pressing a kiss to the top of my head.
“You got here fast,” he says, leading me inside. He puts my keys on a small wooden table by the door. “I got here about ten minutes ago.”
“Traffic was light.”
He grins, knowing damn good and well that I raced over here like a bat out of hell.
“Welcome to my humble abode,” he says.
I take a step back and gasp. “Oh wow, Tate. This is beautiful.”
“It’s okay.”
My eyeballs nearly pop out of my head. “It’s okay? Are you serious? This is stunning.”
“I like it. It’s pretty clean and natural, for the most part. Low maintenance.”
“So what you're saying is that you don’t go from room to room and change everything every six months?”
He laughs. “I’ve lived here for five years, and I just managed to fill the last room with furniture a few months ago.”
I look at him in disbelief. This is a dream home. How can he be so nonchalant about it?
Oh, right. He’s a billionaire.
“Would you like a drink?” he asks. “Water? Soda? Wine? I might have a beer somewhere.”
“A water would be great.” I glance down at his bare feet. “Should I take my shoes off? I don’t know if that seems presumptuous or if it’s good manners?”
He flashes me a killer smile. “You’re here. That’s all I care about.”
Tate walks barefoot into the kitchen, leaving me swooning behind. I hurriedly kick off my shoes, then follow him through an arched doorway.
“I hope you cook in here because this kitchen was made for meal prep,” I say, trying not to let my jaw sweep the floor.
If the entryway was stunning, I’m not sure what to call the kitchen. The cabinets are the same color as the wood floors, and the appliances blend in. I have no clue where the fridge or dishwasher are. The counters are a pristine white stone with light gray and gold veins. A deep farmhouse sink centered on a wide window runs nearly the whole length of the counter. The view from the glass is all fields, forests, and the city skyline off in the distance.
A window seat is built into a smaller window beside the island, and I can imagine curling up there with a book on a rainy day.
“What are you thinking?” he asks.
I sit on a barstool at the island, watching him pour me a glass of water.
“I’m thinking that this space is perfect for big holiday dinners, and late nights with cocktails or cookies and milk while sharing stories and dreams.”
“Sounds nice. Let’s try it sometime.”
My heart flutters.
“I was afraid your security guy wasn’t going to let me in,” I say. “He’s pretty serious.”