Total pages in book: 12
Estimated words: 11006 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 55(@200wpm)___ 44(@250wpm)___ 37(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 11006 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 55(@200wpm)___ 44(@250wpm)___ 37(@300wpm)
She clears her throat, and it brings me back to the present. She’s wearing a tight, long black skirt and a purple blazer thing. I don’t know what they are actually called for women, and some strappy purple high heels.
“Miss Lafontaine. Please sit down,” I say, gesturing to the seat in front of me. I’d stand to greet her, but my raging hard-on is preventing me from doing just that. I watch her as she glides from the door to one of the chairs sitting in front of me. She smiles at me before reaching into what I can only describe as a giant Mary Poppins kind of bag. She roots around for a few seconds before pulling out a purple notebook and pen. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that purple must be her favorite color since she’s wearing purple from head to toe, including the amethyst earrings she has on.
“Tatum, please,” she says, her voice breathy. It has a just fucked quality that has me a little weak. “I am so sorry I'm late. That’s so unlike me. My grandmother needed some assistance.”
“No worries. I’m Josh,” I say. She’s knocked me off-kilter. This close, I can smell her perfume. It’s intoxicating.
“Alright, Josh. Tell me what you would like me to do for you,” she replies, and my mouth goes fucking dry and drops open.
“Excuse me?” I ask, after clearing my throat.
“Your email was vague. What are you needing?”
“Ah. My house and my office. I’d like to start with the house. I just moved in, but it doesn’t feel like home yet.” She nods and opens her notebook, and clicks her pen.
“Do you own the home, or are you renting?” she asks, not looking up from her notebook.
“Own.” She makes a low hmm sound in the back of her throat as she makes some notes. Dear Lord, does the woman not know what she is doing to me?
“Location?” Fuck, she asked me something. Get your shit together, man. I clear my throat before answering.
“Forest Hill South.”
“So close. Very nice homes there.” It should be. The damn near 2.3 million dollar townhouse looks Victorian on the outside and ultra-modern on the inside. It was a good investment, but I am unsure if I see it as the home where I grow old.
“Right now, it’s kind of clinical and I can’t stand it.” It makes me feel like I am in a mausoleum, and who wants to live in one of those?
“I can understand that. I’d like to see the space and get a feel for it and you before I come up with anything.”
“Can you start later tonight?” I ask.
“Of course. For now, can you tell me a little about what you are wanting?”
“This is going to sound crazy,” I preface. I know it is because it just popped into my head upon seeing her. I want her to be mine and I want it to be her space too.
“I like crazy. I thrive on crazy, but I’ve heard and done it all. Sex dungeon? You got it. Star Trek or Star Wars-themed rooms even had one dedicated to a deceased cat named Mr. Whiskers before. Trust me, whatever you say, I’ve heard it before.”
“Doubtful,” I say, chuckling. “I want you to design your dream home. I want a woman’s touch. Your touch.” She stares at me blankly for close to two minutes before she speaks.
“Okay, you were right that I hadn’t heard before. Why on Earth would you want that? Wouldn’t your wife or girlfriend be better suited to that?” She crosses her right leg over her left, and I am mesmerized by the slight flash of creamy thigh; you’d think I’d never been with a woman. I do some quick math and realize it’s been at least ten years, maybe more, since I bothered with a woman.
“I’m single, Tatum. Tell me you are too.” I demand.
“I don’t see what that has to do with anything, Josh, but yes, I’m single.”
“Thank fuck,” I mumble under my breath.
“What was that?”
“I said thank fuck,” I tell her, opting to put it all out there. She blushes prettily. I wonder if that blush travels down the rest of her. With her fair skin, I’d take that bet if I were a betting man.
“Your address?”
“1017 Spadina Road.” She writes it down and closes her notebook with a snap.
“Thank you. Does eight work for you?”
“Absolutely. I could make us dinner.”
“You cook?” she asks. I can tell she is surprised.
“Of course. I had to learn if I ever wanted to eat something other than takeout. My mother, God rest her soul, wasn’t much of a cook. Self-taught. Nothing extravagant, but I do alright.”
“I’m sorry for your loss. Dinner sounds nice.”
“Excellent. See you at eight.”
“See you then,” she says, standing.
“I’m looking forward to it,” I say, also standing. She shakes my extended hand. Her skin is soft, and I want to touch everywhere all at once.