Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 89142 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 446(@200wpm)___ 357(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89142 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 446(@200wpm)___ 357(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
I walk inside, and my jaw drops.
I feel like I’ve walked into the past.
The house itself is historic, and Hunter has decorated it with what look like antiques, though I honestly don’t have an educated eye regarding decor.
“Wow,” I can’t help saying.
“I take it you like it.”
“I love it. It’s absolutely beautiful.” I walk toward a navy-blue sofa with cherrywood feet upholstered in some kind of brocade with bumblebees embroidered onto it. The coffee table sitting in front of it is the same cherry with a gorgeous silver-and-gold marble top. On top are several books, leather bound, including, of course, The Great Gatsby.
Two wingback chairs also flank the coffee table on the other side, upholstered with the same navy blue but no bumblebees.
Between the two chairs is a small cherry table on a pedestal.
The entire apartment floor is dark hardwood, but a blue-and-burgundy Turkish rug sits under the coffee table. A wine rack sits off to the side, made of the same cherrywood with wrought iron accents.
“Let me show you everything else.” Hunter leads me to the small kitchen and dining area. Another Turkish rug sits under the dining room table, which is small, to accommodate the size of the apartment, but again it looks like something that came out of the early twentieth century. Cherry again—he must like cherry—and the chairs are upholstered in navy and burgundy stripes.
“Did you decorate this yourself?” I ask.
“I did, actually.” He runs his hand over the upholstery of one of the wingbacks. “Believe it or not, I found each of these pieces on the secondhand market and restored them myself.”
“Wow. You’re an artist, Hunter.”
“It’s just a hobby. I enjoy it. When you read and teach all day, it’s nice to do something with your hands on the weekends.”
“It’s all gorgeous. I can’t wait to see the bedroom.” I clamp my hand over my mouth. “I mean… I don’t mean…”
He laughs. “I know exactly what you mean, Frankie. I’d love to show you the bedroom, but first I want to show you my working area. My office.”
He leads me through one of the bedroom doors, and the first thing my gaze falls upon is an antique rolltop desk, again in cherry.
“Are all these pieces actually made of cherry? Or did you stain them to look that way?”
“They’re all cherry, but I did use some stain to freshen up the color.”
“They’re beautiful. You actually work at the rolltop desk?”
“No.” He gestures. “I work mostly in that recliner, with my laptop.”
Indeed, the leather recliner—the leather is a dark brown—sits in the corner of the room along with a floor lamp. Two walls are completely lined with bookshelves, and I close my eyes and inhale.
The smoky scent of leather, the crisp and earthy scent of parchment.
I feel like I’ve walked into an old library.
Hunter has a huge collection of books—a lot of the classics, of course, which he undoubtedly teaches, but a lot of commercial fiction as well, which surprises me. Then of course there’s nonfiction, books on teaching, and a few self-help books as well.
Interestingly, no books on the BDSM lifestyle—at least not sitting out in plain view.
“I love this place,” I say. “What a perfect place to do your work.”
“I’ve graded many papers in that chair,” he says. “Put together many lesson plans. And…it’s where I wrote my novel.”
A grin splits my face. “Hunter, that’s fantastic! Can you tell me about it?”
“It’s funny.” He shakes his head. “I haven’t told anyone about it, other than my friend Logan. But it just kind of popped out of my mouth with you.”
“I’m honored. Truly. What did you write about?”
“It’s historical erotic fiction,” he says.
My cheeks burn when he says the word “erotic.” “Really? Romance?”
“There’s a love story, but I wouldn’t call it a romance. I’ve done a lot of research into alternate sexual lifestyles in the past.”
“I’d love to read it sometime.”
“It’s actually under contract with Peck and Gold here in New York. It releases in a few months. Under a pen name, of course.”
“Erik with a K?” I smile.
He laughs. “No. And not Phantom, either. Damn. Why do I want to tell you?”
“Baby steps, Hunter. But I’d love to read it. I’m absolutely impressed. The thought of writing a book is so daunting.”
“But you’re a writer, Frankie. You write for the magazine.”
I shake my head. “I think my longest article was about five thousand words. You’re talking about an eighty- or ninety-thousand-word novel.”
“Actually, this one is more like a hundred and twenty thousand words.”
“Color me impressed,” I say. “You’re amazing.”
“Don’t say that. You haven’t read it.”
“Just writing that many words is amazing.”
He lets out another low laugh. “Like I said, you haven’t read it. Early reviews have been promising, though. My agent and the publisher are pleased.”
“I know a lot of publishers in the city,” I say. “I know Anita from Peck and Gold.”