Total pages in book: 30
Estimated words: 28608 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 143(@200wpm)___ 114(@250wpm)___ 95(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 28608 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 143(@200wpm)___ 114(@250wpm)___ 95(@300wpm)
I’m more than a little shocked at myself. Am I crazy or something? What the hell is going on?
No. What I am, I realize quickly, is bored. Bored of my life. Bored of my past. Bored of my old job, but too bored to find something new. Bored of lackluster dates, and bored of sleeping alone. Passing out sandwiches to the homeless has ignited some kind of spark within me, but not enough to combat this overwhelming feeling of apathy. I need something new. Something different. Something unexpected and maybe this take-charge alpha male is about to serve it to me.
So I keep following, stunned at my own actions.
In fact, the question is now is, what do I expect? Sure, I’ve technically met this guy before, and yes, know he’s a friend of my brother’s, but I still know very little about him, except that he looks incredible shirtless wearing nothing but black shorts. Maybe my brother doesn’t know him well either. They’re probably just “friendly” and not friends, and Tate Connor could be a masochist with a dungeon filled with sex toys.
Then again, if he does have that, I’d be very interested, certainly.
I’m pondering these questions all the way down the street, until I blink and realize we’re at the front stoop of a red brick townhouse.
“Home sweet home,” Tate growls while keying open the door. He inclines his head, and willing my swirling thoughts to quiet, I step inside.
Unwilling to obey, my thoughts rage harder and louder. This place is incredible. How much money does he make? Who picked out this furniture? Did do all the decorating himself?! The townhouse is enormous by townhouse standards. It’s a double, so probably at least forty-feet wide, and the entryway is magnificent with a dark wood stairwell winding up to the second floor. The furniture is all period, the floors hardwood, and the windows huge and partially obscured by sumptuous blue curtains. I immediately recognize some of the artwork on the walls, and bite my tongue. I know exactly how much they cost, and trust me, they are not cheap.
Nothing about this place, in fact, is cheap. The beautifully-bound books in the built-in shelves, the enormous fireplace and mantle, the rugs, the lamps, the gigantic kitchen and dining area… these are things that cost money. But they’re not flashy, nor are they gaudy. Instead, they’re welcoming and elegant, testament to their owner’s excellent taste. In fact, it’s exactly the kind of place I could envision myself living in, if I envisioned myself living the kind of life I used to. Which, I remind myself, I don’t.
But with a gorgeous man here with me…
I shake my head.
“This is incredible,” I manage to stammer to Tate as he sets my ragged bags down. I wince as they make contact with a priceless Persian rug.
He aims a dazzling smile at me. “Pretty, ain’t it?” he remarks in an exaggerated drawl. “I worked with some very high-end architects and designers to restore this place to its pre-war majesty. I’m not a fan of all-chrome this and black-marble that.”
My attention is taken by a huge painting on the wall by the kitchen. A tall oak tree reaches into a blue-grey sky, flanked by fluffy silver clouds. A pond lies still in the foreground, surrounded by moss and other dark greens and browns.
“Are you a fan of the Barbizon School?” I ask offhandedly. This is a piece by Jules Dupre, who brought a very English style of painting to France. I don’t always love landscapes, but I’ve always enjoyed this one’s moody hues.
I don’t get a response. When I look over my shoulder, Tate is staring at me with a cocked brow. I flush from the tips of my ears to my toes. Dumbass, I chastise myself. What homeless girl is an art aficionado? I’m definitely not keeping up my charade very well.
“You know Dupre?” he asks with a tinge of confusion.
Thinking fast, I realize that it’s close-minded of me to assume that homeless people wouldn’t know art. As I’ve learned from passing out sandwiches, homeless people have an incredible array of past experiences, and, obviously, can be just as intelligent and cultured as someone who is housed. Homelessness doesn’t mean stupidity or ignorance, and that was a dumb mistake on my part. I lift my chin.
“Well yes,” I say. It’ll be easier for me to maintain a lie if I speak the truth as often as possible. “I went to art school. It was a long time ago, but I even managed to graduate.”
Tate’s arched brow reaches a little higher. The obvious questions seem to be gathering on his tongue, but it looks like he swallows them. It would definitely not be polite of a stranger to ask about my current situation, or to ask how I went to college and ended up homeless in the park. Instead, he smiles easily and asks, “Who’s your favorite artist?” Then, “Wait. Come into the kitchen and tell me. I’ll start cooking in the meantime.”