Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 97151 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 486(@200wpm)___ 389(@250wpm)___ 324(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97151 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 486(@200wpm)___ 389(@250wpm)___ 324(@300wpm)
“Guilty as charged,” I reply. “Your turn.”
“We’ve got to tell each other the truth, right? No ifs or buts?”
“Absolutely.”
“Were you telling the truth when you said you’d never brought a woman back to your apartment before? You know, after Aurora and Deacon’s engagement party, you said—”
“I know what I said. And yes, it was the truth.”
“So how come I was the exception to your strictly enforced rule?”
It’s a question I don’t have an answer to. So I decide to answer honestly. “I don’t know.”
More silence stretches between us.
God, I really like this woman.
“Come on,” I say. “I think we’ve both had more than six questions. Let’s go and eat.”
TWELVE
Avril
I wake up grinning as I remember the day before. Taking me to the whispering gallery was the move of a champion. I’d defy any woman in New York City not to be taken in by Ben. He’s good at what he does. And what he does is charm you. But his technique is not as unctuous as I expected it to be. Everything is rooted in authenticity and it’s so, so, so easy to get taken in by it.
I sit up and push up my eye mask as I remember the kitten that we took to the vet’s. Did he plant that just so I could see how sweet and sensitive he was—a rescuer of kittens? I mean, if a woman were to design a perfect man, a kitten rescuer would be up there as a premium add-on.
I stagger out of bed. I want answers. When I step into the kitchen, Ben is behind the kitchen island, grinning at me.
“Cute mask. I have one too. Want a coffee?”
I scowl at him, not quite sure what he’s saying, and then I reach for the top of my head and pull off my eye mask. “Hey,” I say. “Did you plant that kitten outside your building yesterday?”
“Plant it? I’m making lattes.”
“Yeah, did you have the cat there to show me what a great guy you are?”
He stops what he’s doing and looks me straight in the eye. “You think I have the power to have a cat loiter outside my building until I’m ready to come out and rescue it? Have you ever met a cat before?”
When he puts it like that, it sounds implausible, but anything’s possible. “You didn’t answer the question.”
“No, Avril, I did not arrange for a cat—that you noticed and decided needed rescuing—to be outside my building in need of said rescuing.”
“Right,” I say, trying to buy myself time to think of a reason why I sound so insane. “I had a dream is all…”
“You didn’t have a dream. You’re looking for reasons to hate me. Probably because you like me more than you want to. Now, come and sit down, drink your coffee, and stop being so distrusting and paranoid.”
My shoulders sag because I feel like an idiot. I clamber onto one of the barstools at the kitchen island and he slides coffee in my direction. “Sorry. You’re right, I was being…” What was I thinking? Of course he couldn’t conjure up a lost cat just to make himself look good.
“Unhinged?” he suggests with a grin.
“Yeah. Unhinged works. Thanks for the coffee.”
“You’re welcome. You’re gorgeous in the morning. Wanna hear our plans for the day?”
Did he just slip in the best compliment ever? I’m going to ignore it, because…I won’t be charmed by this man. Instead, I groan. “Plans? Are we going to the gym?”
“What’s with the aversions to plans? We’re meant to be hanging out. I mean, you agreed to this deal, right?”
“Right,” I reply. “But it doesn’t mean we always have to do things. Like, we could just hang.”
“Hang?” he asks, his eyes narrowed.
“You know, just do Sunday things.”
“Okay, I’m going to bite,” he says. “What are Sunday things?” Then his expression brightens. “Do they involve getting naked, because I’m absolutely down for naked Sunday.”
I try not to smile, but it’s hard. He always seems so easy-breezy, like nothing’s too difficult or too much for him. I just can’t help but wonder how much of it is real.
“No naked Sunday,” I say with a glare. “I just mean hanging out. PJs, breakfast in bed while watching mindless shows, snacks, naps—Bed rotting.”
“Bed rotting?” he asks, like he’s never heard of the term, But he must have, right?
“Yes. Rotting in bed.”
“Rotting? You want to rot?”
“Well, not actually rot. But just chill out in bed all day.”
“Naked?”
I stifle a giggle. “There’s no sex involved.” But I might snag a glance at his ass. He has a really nice ass.
He pushes his hand across his jaw, like he’s considering the idea. He looks so hot as his t-shirt lifts a little, exposing some of the flat of his stomach. I know how good that bronzed, hard skin feels. I look away, mentally chastising myself. I have to stop seeing him as attractive. A day bed rotting would help. I can reframe him as a slob, rather than a highly polished billionaire who never wastes a second of any day.