Total pages in book: 74
Estimated words: 71352 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 357(@200wpm)___ 285(@250wpm)___ 238(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 71352 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 357(@200wpm)___ 285(@250wpm)___ 238(@300wpm)
Her gaze searches my face. “Don’t ask me that because if I say yes, you’ll fire him.”
“It has crossed my mind,” I say teasingly, but I instantly see that’s not how she absorbs it.
Her hand jumps to her mouth. “We can’t. We have to go our separate ways now. We already lied to him earlier.”
“We didn’t tell him that we already met,” I make the subtle correction.
“Now you’re splitting hairs.” Her eyes lock on mine. “My brother has championed me for most of my life. He’s stood by me through everything and I can’t jeopardize his job just to have more fun.”
That stings. It fucking stings because I want more than fun from her.
“Order thirty-four!” A voice calls from behind the counter. “Thirty-four is ready!”
I can’t let her walk out of here thinking I’m someone I’m not, so I stop her by grabbing her elbow.
She looks up at me. “Donovan.”
“I get what you’re saying but you need to know that I would never punish your brother for anything that happened or could have happened between us. I consider Matt not only a valuable employee, but a friend.”
I yank one of my business cards out of my jacket pocket. I reach for a pen from the counter to scribble my cell number on the back of it before I shove it at her. “Take this. Use it to contact me day or night, Delia. You need someone to carry you through the city, I’m your guy. You want someone to wash your hair, give me a call, and if you’re lonely at night, I’ll read to you on the phone. I fucking miss you.”
Tears well in her eyes as she accepts it. She presses it against her chest. “Okay.”
I’ll take it. It’s not the response I want, but I’ll accept it, for now.
She races to the counter, picks up her bag of food, and without a single glance back, she leaves.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Delia
I walk into my apartment and drop the bag containing my salad on the elaborate marble table that sits in the middle of the massive entry way.
“Hello!” I call out, my voice echoing through the space as it bounces off the walls.
They’re all still painted the same shade of light gray that they were the day I moved in.
That was years ago.
I look down at the Brazilian rosewood flooring that carries through all seven thousand square feet of my home.
According to the previous owner, it was hand chosen as was every other detail in this place, including the barely used appliances in the kitchen. That room was completed just months before I inherited this place.
A soft knock at my door spins me back around. This building is on Park Avenue and is as safe as safe can be since there’s always a security guard on the premises and two doormen in the lobby who do everything in their power to keep strangers as far away from the residents as possible.
Everyone I love has been given carte blanche to come and go as they please. That’s the benefit of living in one of the four penthouses.
I swing open the door without peering through the peephole. I find my neighbor, Mr. Winters, on the other side.
He greets me with a warm smile and a slight bow. It’s his signature move and I kind of love him for it.
“Hey, Mr. Winters,” I say, stepping back to give him entry to my home. “What do you need?”
“A smile and a cup of sugar.”
Mr. Winters loves sugar in his tea but he always forgets to add it to his grocery list. That’s the only reason I add it to mine once every couple of months.
I take the offered small glass container and set off toward the kitchen.
“Did you get yourself some dinner?” he asks as he passes my take-out bag.
“It’s a salad,” I tell him over my shoulder. “Spinach, apples, walnuts. The dressing is vinaigrette. We can split it if you want.”
“I’ll take a little for lunch tomorrow,” he says. “But with the dressing on the side, please.”
I smile because he’s always so polite. He tells me manners were born and bred into men who are ninety-years-old like he is. I tell him he’s one of a kind.
“I’ll pack that up for you,” I offer. “I’ll grab the sugar first.”
He watches in silence as I fill his sugar bowl before I race back to grab the salad. I fill a small reusable bowl with a generous portion before I toss some of the dressing onto what’s left and snap the lid back on the container to give it to him.
“I can help you carry it home if you’d like.”
He studies me carefully from where he’s standing. “You’re glowing, Delia.”
That’s his polite way of saying I’m sweating. I know I am but I can’t tell if it’s from the searing heat enveloping the city or from talking to Donovan.