Total pages in book: 63
Estimated words: 59395 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 297(@200wpm)___ 238(@250wpm)___ 198(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 59395 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 297(@200wpm)___ 238(@250wpm)___ 198(@300wpm)
This old house, restored to its glory in a classic yet modern way, is what stirs these feelings, I know, and with good reason. It is much like the home my grandparents left me, where I keep my wine cellar, where Allie lived. It was part of her employment, not part of our relationship, a perk I wrote into the job description before I met her, for self-serving reasons. The wine in the cellar is safer when a staff member has it on their radar constantly.
Allie died in that house.
Ironically, so did my father.
But this house isn’t that house. This is Bella’s house, and it’s all about classic beauty, pulled together with the façade of effortless skill. But in truth, this house’s beauty was a labor of love that required hard work, skill, and dedication to achieve.
It’s simple perfection. It’s Bella.
“I’m ready.”
At the sound of her voice, I rotate to find her standing at the bottom of the stairs in a tan sweater, matching jeans, and suede boots, a bag on her shoulder. It’s not the first time I’ve seen Bella in casual wear. We’ve certainly run into each other on the weekends and a few times on the weekends at Cupcakes and Books, both of us hunting down Dash. This is, however, the first time I went from admiring how hot she is to trying to figure out how to most efficiently undress her.
It’s a damn good thing we’re flying commercial. If we were flying private—me and her alone—nothing good would come of it besides pleasure. Those clothes she just put on would come off at thirty thousand feet. If we made it that high with our clothes in place.
Holy hell, I need to fuck this burn for Bella out of my system with someone else that isn’t her. And for the love of God, why the hell does that hold no appeal? Why can’t I imagine myself making a call and flying one of the women I have an understanding with to LA? Becca would be on her knees in a heartbeat, saying, “Yes, sir” to every demand I made. But I want Bella. On her knees. On my lap. On my damn face.
“Tyler?”
At my name on her lips again—at least some part of me is—I close the space between us and reach for her bag. The act of removing it from her shoulder doesn’t have to be as intimate as it becomes. My hand captures the strap and travels down her arm, and I am aware of her reaction to my touch. She draws in a breath, cuts her stare, and shivers.
Bella has not let go of what happened between us any more than I have. I slide the bag on my own shoulder, watching her closely as I ask, “Anything else?”
“Nothing,” she confirms, but there is a whole lot more than nothing in the air between us.
And maybe that’s the problem. There is just too much undone between us. We need it done. We need it behind us.
I drop the bag, and I’m about to just say screw making our flight, we’ll fly private—and screw everything else holding me back—whatever it takes for me to get a taste of her.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Tyler
I never get the chance to act on that thought.
My cellphone rings, almost as if my conscience is setting off an alarm. Don’t do it. Don’t touch her again. Don’t step back over the line. And I don’t. I grab the bag and take a step backward, placing space between me and Bella before I snake my phone from my pocket.
Gavin is on my caller ID and that is not a call I want to take in front of Bella. I decline the call. “Let’s go. It’s late.”
“Don’t you need to get that?” she asks. “I can give you privacy.”
I walk to the door and open it. “Whoever it is can wait. The plane will not.”
She hesitates and then grabs her long, black trench coat from the hook by the door, slips it on, and walks outside. I follow Bella to the porch, pulling the door shut. When I turn, she is there waiting on me, close, and I all but end up colliding with her again. “Bella,” I chide softly.
“I have to lock up,” she explains, and we’re standing there again, unmoving, staring at each other. I’m going to kiss her, I think again.
And holy hell, my phone rings again, and I step around her and walk down the steps, removing my phone from my pocket to find my mother calling. I decline the call and pause to wait on Bella. She catches up with me. “All set?” I ask.
“Yes,” she confirms. “I’m ready. What time is our flight?”
“Seven,” I say, aware that it’s nearing five. “We should be fine.” I’m certain that we will, but we won’t have time to kill time at the airport, which is fine by me. The less time I spend with Bella, the better. Or worse. It just depends on how you look at it.