Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 72021 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 360(@200wpm)___ 288(@250wpm)___ 240(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72021 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 360(@200wpm)___ 288(@250wpm)___ 240(@300wpm)
The door lock sounded before I expected it to. I was still standing naked under the bathroom lighting when the beautiful monster stepped on through with a breakfast tray in his solid hands.
He stared at me.
I stared right back.
I gave him a smile, cheeks burning.
He didn’t smile back, just turned his attention away and placed the tray down on the bed.
It was then that I stepped out enough to notice the two plates instead of one.
“A simple lunchtime breakfast,” he announced, but it wasn’t.
The sandwiches were well prepared. Crusty bread with a side salad topped with cress. Like something from a quaint little lunch bar on the beach front.
I took a seat opposite him on the bed and pulled up my legs folded, past caring about the exposure of my naked parts as his eyes ate me up. It’s not as though he hadn’t seen me up close under far less flattering circumstances already.
The sandwiches should have held my attention, but didn’t. My gaze wouldn’t leave him. He looked different. More dishevelled than I’d known him.
His hair was slick and dark, but not nearly so preened. There was a tiny tuft of rebel strands midway along his parting. His shadowy stubble was dark enough to complement his uneven shirt collar with a hint of just rolled out of bed.
The thought made me smile and I had to fight back a giggle.
He raised an eyebrow.
“You seem in surprisingly good spirits for a young woman with bruising over the majority of her body.”
I managed a shrug. “I’m enjoying a surprisingly good lunch for a young woman who expected to be shackled to a whipping post for sixty days straight.” That did get a smirk from him. I was smiling pretty bright when I spoke again. “Please send my compliments to the chef. Very nice.”
“Why thank you,” he said. “The chef appreciates your manners.”
It took me a moment, head tipped at the implication. “You made this?”
“You sound shocked,” he countered. “Tell me, sweetheart, did you not expect a man like me to be able to put a lunchtime sandwich together?”
“It’s not that you wouldn’t be able to…” I said. “More that you wouldn’t… wouldn’t have the, um…”
“Tolerance of the finer aspects of life and routine?” he finished, and I cringed inside, worrying if he was going to be offended enough to slap me for my cheek.
He wasn’t.
His smile was surprisingly light as he picked at his salad.
I took the opportunity to push the conversation. “Do you like cooking? Would you be a chef if not for the world’s most hard-handed escort business?”
If I hoped he would laugh, he didn’t. “I don’t make a habit of rustling up food of any kind.”
“So what do you do?” I prompted. “In your free time, I mean.”
His stare was blank but cutting. “You’re talking about hobbies? Interests?”
“Yeah,” I said. “You must have things you enjoy, outside of this place, I mean.”
“How about you?” he countered, without an answer. “You’re the university student stepping out into the big, bad world. You’re the one who must know her favourites around lectures. Shopping? Reading? TV?”
I shook my head. “Not really.”
“Too busy are you? Too vigorous a student to spend her free time dicking around with daydreams and hobbies?”
I shook my head again. “I have free time. I just… research. Research and head out for a few stupid drinks with my floor mates on campus. That and plan my future, read through my lectures and assignments.” I paused. “And Phoebe, I spend a lot of my time wondering about Phoebe–”
He waved his hand at that. “I’m well aware of your interest in your sister, little girl.”
But he wasn’t.
He couldn’t be.
If he had any awareness of the depth of my concerns for my sister, there would be no way he’d rule out a touch base conversation for two minutes between me and her.
I didn’t have long to dwell on it before he asked another question.
“What do you want to be on the back of your university degree?”
I could answer that question all day long.
“An occupational therapist,” I told him. “I want to dedicate my life to helping people live theirs to their greatest potential.”
“Watch it with that good girl bullshit, or I’ll end up retching up my sandwich,” he said, but he was joking.
For once he was actually joking.
But I wasn’t.
“I mean it,” I said. “If you don’t spend your time doing some good in this world, then what is the point of existing in it?”
He pulled a face. “Because we’re pushed out of a birth canal before we’re old enough to make even a smidgen of choice on the prospect of whether we want to be here. Because we’re individuals with individual wants and drives, whose priority is to live our longest and fullest, to our own free will.”
“You think that’s all this life is? Putting ourselves first no matter what?” My tone wasn’t hard or harsh. Not even cynical.