Total pages in book: 65
Estimated words: 61872 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 309(@200wpm)___ 247(@250wpm)___ 206(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 61872 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 309(@200wpm)___ 247(@250wpm)___ 206(@300wpm)
I finger the closest item, a knee-length silken caftan in teal, the color of Lake Como. There are no weird women’s business suits with shoulder pads or sensible black skirts. Or worse, tight club wear, the sort my mom thinks I should wear to land a hedge fund billionaire boyfriend. Everything in here is designer, but something I’d wear. It’s like a genie cataloged everything I’ve ever loved to wear and created the closet of my dreams.
I grab a pair of Gucci jeans and hold them against my front. Yep, my size. So are the pairs of Sophia Webster and Valentino heels, and Frye and Zadig & Voltaire boots, all displayed in their own backlit cubbies, like they’re in a Milan storefront. I don’t wear high heels often, but for the whimsical butterfly design or rockstar studded leather, I’d make an exception.
I clutch a red leather riding boot to my chest. I should put it back in its cubby, but I’m barefoot in a strange place. Maybe I can borrow some footwear. I don’t know whose room I ended up in, but she does have great taste.
I find a pair of thin socks and tug on the boots. They fit perfectly.
In a daze, I step out of the closet and stop short. The massive wooden and leather studded bedroom door is still closed, but I’m no longer alone.
A tall man stands by the fireplace, his head bowed as he regards the fire. He turns as if sensing my presence. He's in a dark suit--Brioni by the look of it–and there's something familiar about him. The close-cropped beard lining the strong line of his jaw, the dark hair falling across his forehead. He’s wearing a pair of oversized sunglasses that hide the middle half of his face. The lenses are totally black.
“You are awake, my treasure,” he says in accented English.
My treasure? Uh…do I know you?
His accent rolls around in my head. Where have I heard it before? I take a step forward. “Where am I? Who are you? What is happening?”
He waits until I fall silent. “Patience, Tabitha. In time, I will answer every question you have.”
The unease I’d been trying to keep at bay filters into my bloodstream. This is getting weirder by the second. “You know my name.”
“I know everything about you.”
Goosebumps race down my arms. That’s not creepy at all. I should run for the door, but something keeps my feet rooted to the spot. The man seems relaxed and in charge. There’s nothing menacing about him, and for some reason, I’m fascinated by him rather than frightened. “Are you the hotel manager?”
The corner of his perfect lips twitches. “No.”
“What is this place?”
“You're in my home.”
His home.
What?
“And how did I get here?” I wrack my brain for memories of the night before, but I still don’t remember anything beyond driving in the middle of nowhere in my VW bus.
“I had you brought here after you passed out.”
“I passed out?” My yelp echoes off the stone walls.
“I had a doctor examine you. He found you perfectly healthy, other than some minor fatigue and dehydration.”
I press a hand over my heart. I’ve never passed out, even when living off green smoothies and a handful of raw almonds on the modeling circuit. “No. I don’t pass out. That doesn’t make sense.”
“Be at ease, Tabitha,” he says in that deep rolling voice of his. It’s strangely soothing. I’m sensitive to people’s bad vibes, but I’m at ease with him. Memory tugs at me. Do I recognize him from somewhere?
A tiny fork of lightning appears around his head, thin as spider web. Like a floating golden thread. It disappears instantly, leaving nothing where the man’s aura should be.
I was young when I realized not everyone could see colors around people the way I could. I was in the park and kept pointing to peoples’ heads, babbling to my mom about the blue, yellow, or red colors around them. She smacked my hand and told me to be quiet.
Now I don’t talk about my visions with anyone, ever. Not even my friends. I learned early on that they make people uncomfortable. So I keep silent and use my gifts to navigate the world.
This guy has no aura. I can’t sense him psychically. It’s relaxing. Like putting on noise-canceling headphones during a Schoenberg concert. Blissfully quiet.
And something about him seems so familiar…
The stranger speaks again. “If you like, I can summon the doctor again.”
“No, that’s okay. I feel fine now.” I don’t like that a doctor examined me, and I didn’t even wake up. Something is off here. Way off.
“I had the room designed for you.” The man blatantly changes the subject.
“For me?” I narrow my eyes. “How do you know me, exactly?”
For a moment, I wonder if this is some kind of blind date my mom cooked up, and he’s some uber-rich guy she’s sold on marrying me.