Total pages in book: 49
Estimated words: 47165 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 236(@200wpm)___ 189(@250wpm)___ 157(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 47165 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 236(@200wpm)___ 189(@250wpm)___ 157(@300wpm)
“Nothing. Nothing at all,” I tell him honestly, eager to rush over and hold onto him, feel his huge body holding mine again.
I don’t say it, but I think I like Steve Carter better in plain old jeans and a T-shirt.
Even if they’re still four hundred dollars apiece.
I like him better in his birthday suit over anything else, but casual just makes him less… foreboding. Makes him look more human, if that makes sense, because the man’s so damned good-looking when he wears three thousand dollar suits, he looks like something from a magazine cover.
Something I suspect has already happened, but I don’t usually read business magazines.
“Let’s go,” he finally says. “I’m starving.”
Grabbing his coat and my old puffy jacket that he seems to like seeing on me. He keeps my hand in his all the way to the elevator as it drops silently down forty stories, making my stomach lurch once it stops smoothly.
When the doors open, I’m surprised when I see the building’s foyer instead of the underground parking lot.
“It’s not far,” he comments. “I thought we could just walk.”
The night air is cold, but the snow’s stopped, and the sky’s clear, with only the dazzling lights of stores and Christmas lighting up the city outside.
I don’t see anyone in his office, and only a couple of security guards wish us both a formal “G’night, Mr. Carter,” once they recognize their employer.
I huddle close to Steve, and not just for warmth. It’s only a few blocks before he leads me down to a basement diner.
The type I thought didn’t exist anymore, complete with an old jukebox that plays actual records, chrome, and leather stools.
Booths for privacy, the whole bit.
“I used to be a busboy here for food instead of money,” Steve remarks, taking a booth for us both and having me sit opposite him.
“Somehow, I can’t imagine you struggling with anything,” I comment, but the look of nostalgia in his eyes proves me wrong.
“I had it rough for a long time. I was young and angry once. Even gave the nuns the finger after all their help.”
I can’t believe that either, but I have to ask, “What changed that?”
“Life,” he replies dryly.
“It beat me down until I had nothing left inside. It was the nuns who took me back in, helped me get on my feet again, and taught me some humility and manners at the same time, despite my reckless attitude.”
A disinterested waitress appears, asking with a sigh what we’re having, but Steve doesn’t seem to mind the attitude at all.
It’s like he can sympathize with anyone.
He orders for us both. Burgers and a shake with fries to share.
While we’re waiting for food, he brings up the one thing I’d hoped we could sidestep altogether forever.
My past.
He doesn’t press me much but seems genuinely interested to know more about me. And I figure we’ve both got a lot to share between us, so I find myself talking pretty freely for the first time in my life.
“Not much to tell, really,” I half sigh.
“Small town girl, sent to live with my Aunt when my mom and dad just upped and left one day. She did her best but was much older than my parents. Couldn’t cope after I was in high school.”
Steve looks far from bored, leaning in and taking my hand in his, urging me to continue with his eyes, even once our food arrives in record time.
“Once she got sick, I was old enough to finish high school, and with what little savings I had, I came to the city thinking I could just hit the ground running.”
Steve makes a grunting sound, agreeing with my sentiment.
“This city eats people alive,” he remarks in a dark tone, narrowing his eyes on something behind me for a moment before he forces himself to relax for my benefit.
I want to turn and see what’s made his mood change, but he suddenly smiles, commenting on the food.
“It’s more than a lot of other people have, so we should think about happier things,” he suggests. “Especially at this time of year.”
He opens the bun of his burger, and I bite straight into mine when he calls the waitress over.
“Three coffees for my friends down the back there,” he says in a near whisper.
“Friends of yours, huh?” The waitress almost groans, but she takes the order anyway.
Before he even takes a bite, I notice Steve sending a text, too, before tucking his phone away, and with wide eyes, he starts to devour his burger.
A small group of people noisily enters the diner, and Steve spins his head to take a look, giving me enough time to turn my head in the opposite direction.
With a start, my heart suddenly in my throat, I recognize the three thugs that mugged Steve only yesterday.
The familiar fist bump between them as one rests a hand in his jacket pocket sets alarm bells ringing in my mind.