Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 74604 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 373(@200wpm)___ 298(@250wpm)___ 249(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 74604 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 373(@200wpm)___ 298(@250wpm)___ 249(@300wpm)
What was surprising was that she hadn’t designed it in the very popular minimalistic style that seemed to be all over every wealthy person’s house that I’d been to in the past several years.
It was… fine.
But it never felt homey, comfortable, like a place anyone would want to call home.
Just a place to stay here and there.
And, I guess, that was what a lot of houses and apartments were for the ultra-wealthy, since they had houses all over the world, and bopped between them all the time.
But Miranda didn’t settle for that cold style.
Oh, no.
Everything about her apartment was a mix of traditional, mid-century modern, modern, and Victorian, somehow all together. And it worked.
There were pops of minimal wallpaper to warm things up, tufted material, lots of drapery, carpets, and fabrics. The woods were deeper, rich tones, but the walls were mostly in neutral gray or beige shades.
Mix all that with the personal touches. Like her art and her knick-knacks, all of which probably cost more than my car, it all made up a cozy, comfortable place to feel at-home in.
There were hints of her all around.
A collection of mismatched mugs, all of which with ducks on them. There were also at least half a dozen assorted to-go iced coffee mugs as well.
She had paperwork all over her coffee table; her laptop was sitting on her bed. Clear signs of a workaholic.
There were no signs of a man or a pet anywhere around.
And, fuck, did her place smell good.
Some kind of rich, spicy scent that matched the perfume bottle on her vanity. Like she maybe sprayed it on the curtains or carpets around the house. It was fucking hypnotic.
But aside from the little pieces of herself around, there was no evidence of what the woman herself looked like.
So I hadn’t been prepared for her when she’d walked in the door.
She was on the taller side with dark, nearly black hair that was pulled away from her soft, feminine face with high cheekbones, plump lips, and dark brown eyes.
And the body?
Even in plain lounge pants and a tank, she was sexy as fuck with her ample chest, her thick thighs, her ass, and her belly.
I liked all sorts of women. But I always had a fondness for softer-built women.
And Miranda Coulter was definitely on the softer side from what I could tell.
She looked rough, though.
Her skin that looked like it should have had a golden hue, due to her other coloring, was pale. There were dark purple sleepless smudges under her eyes. Her hair was limp and a little greasy at the root.
And there was a bandage up her arm.
From the suicide attempt that wasn’t a suicide attempt.
She looked institutionalized and beaten down.
I understood that sort of thing better than she could have known, better than anyone around me could have known.
So, I got her need for a shower.
I didn’t even roll my eyes when, forty-five minutes later, the water was still splashing against the tile floors of her glass shower.
The only problem I was having with waiting was the fact that I couldn’t keep my fucking mind from thinking about her in that shower, soap sliding down her curves, my hands…
“Fuck,” I hissed, raking my hands down my face as I stood in her kitchen, making myself a cup of coffee.
“You alright?” a voice asked, startling me, making me realize I’d been so wrapped up in my little fantasy that I’d missed the fact that she’d not only cut off the shower, but gotten out, got lotion on, brushed out her hair, gotten changed, and even spritzed on more of that perfume that was all around her apartment.
She hadn’t changed into more casual loungewear.
Instead, she had on a pair of form-fitting black slacks with faint white pinstripes, and a white square-cut top that cut a little low and didn’t leave a whole lot to the imagination.
Her hair was still damp, the ends wetting the thin material of her top, making it see-through in spots.
She’d even taken the time to put on some mascara and some lipstick.
“I needed to feel like myself,” she explained, sensing the direction of my thoughts.
“I get that. Coffee’s hot. Chinese is… getting cold,” I told her, waving toward the bag on the counter.
“I’d eat it freezer-cold after days of hospital food,” she said, giving a little shiver. “I don’t even want to talk about the food,” she said as she grabbed heavy earthenware plates out of the cabinet, placing them on the island.
“How do you take your coffee?”
“Cream and sugar. A little extra sugar,” she told me as she started to pull the containers out of the bag, flipping open the tops to see what was inside of each, then starting to fill her plate up. “Thank you,” she said when I handed it to her. She reached for it like a lifeline, lifting it, and drinking the whole thing down in a few big gulps. “Now it’s time for wine,” she declared, going over toward the mini fridge, and pulling out a chilled bottle of white. “Am I drinking alone?” she asked as she got the corkscrew and got to work.