Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 94300 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 472(@200wpm)___ 377(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94300 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 472(@200wpm)___ 377(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
The door slammed so hard I jolted where I sat perched on a barstool, pouring over a dozen different articles about local galleries already established in Charleston. If Mila and I wanted ours to stand out, we needed to study what the town already had to offer, and make sure we did something different.
Maxim stomped into the kitchen seconds later, heading straight to the fridge. It was sort of his routine lately—come home, scowling and silent, grab a water bottle, drain it, and then disappear. Sometimes he’d stick around long enough to eat whatever I’d cooked or baked that day, maybe even offer me some small talk, but I could tell tonight wasn’t going to be one of those nights. Which really, really sucked with what I needed to ask him.
“Hi,” I offered, hoping the deep groves between his furrowed brow might smooth out if he focused on literally anything else than what was clearly bothering him. After what Fiona mentioned, I’m guessing things didn’t go well tonight for him either.
“Hi.” He moved to lean against the opposite counter, the white T-shirt he wore straining against his muscles. He wore black athletic pants with the Reapers logo on the right hip, and it almost hurt to look at him, he was so damn gorgeous. Even with the scowl, even with the anger and pain behind his eyes, he was beautiful.
Apprehension crawled up my spine the longer the silence hung between us. Normally, it never bothered me. I was pretty good at just being in a room with someone who didn’t want or need to talk, but tonight I needed something. From him. And he seemed in no mood to do anything other than glare at the empty space in front of him.
“What are you doing tonight?” I hedged instead of outright asking him what I needed.
He blinked a couple times, then glanced at me. “I’m exhausted,” he admitted, and the hope in my chest deflated. “Why?” he asked, tilting his head as if he noticed my disappointment.
I swallowed hard, parting my lips a couple times.
“Just tell me,” Maxim said, his tone sharper than I’d heard in a long time.
I straightened, slightly miffed. I didn’t give him the yips and I certainly didn’t need to be spoken to like I was some annoyance he had to deal with.
“Forget it,” I said, hopping off the barstool and gathering my laptop. I slung my camera bag over my neck, fully prepared to hide in my room the rest of the night and simply hand in my first draft for class later in the week.
Maxim stepped in my path before I could leave the kitchen, his massive chest eating up the space in front of my face. I stared at it for a good six seconds before I found the courage to lift my eyes to his.
God, they were deep pools of churning cobalt and I felt his stare like a lightning bolt through the center of my body. When he stood this close to me, I could feel the heat from his muscled body on mine, could smell his pine smoke and larkspur scent that somehow made my heart lift whenever I caught a whiff of it.
“Tell me,” he demanded, his eyes grazing over my body, the simple T-shirt and sweats I wore, the camera around my neck.
“My first draft shots are due tomorrow,” I finally said, knowing he wouldn’t move until I told him. “For my art of motion in the human body project?” I shrugged. “It’s fine,” I said. “You’ve had a long day. I’ll just ask someone from class to help with the shots and then hand them in late—”
“No,” he said, stepping around me. “I told you I’d do it. Let’s go.”
I turned around, watching him as he headed toward the door that led to his basement.
“Are you coming or not?” he asked when I just stood there staring at him for a few seconds too long.
I narrowed my gaze at him, sat my laptop down, and headed toward him. He didn’t bother to wait, grumpy butt that he was, and I had to hustle down the stairs to catch up to him. By the time I made it, he was already reaching for his skates.
“Holy hell,” I whispered, taking in the indoor rink that dominated the entire basement area of his house. There was even a mini Zamboni in the corner, just off the ice.
Maxim huffed, lacing up his skates with rapid, expert moves, before I could shake off the shock of seeing this. Mila had told me about it, of course, but seeing it was a whole different thing. I’d never come down here before in the couple weeks I’d lived here because it was usually where Maxim went to be alone.
He stepped onto the ice after grabbing a stick and some pucks and started doing his thing.