Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 81745 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 409(@200wpm)___ 327(@250wpm)___ 272(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81745 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 409(@200wpm)___ 327(@250wpm)___ 272(@300wpm)
I walk in ahead of him, and if I wasn’t trying to prove a point, I would gush about how beautiful his room is. The ceilings are high with exposed gray beams. The king-size bed sits in the middle with a white duvet on it, a gray throw blanket is across the foot of the bed, and about fifteen throw pillows. “Do you really make your bed every day?”
He shrugs. “Not every day, but I like things clean,” he says. I check out the gray velvet couch in front of the bed facing the fireplace with two round gray velvet chairs in front. The lights hanging from the ceiling look like light bulbs on a chain—it’s modern and masculine all at the same time. “The master bathroom is in there.” He points at the arched doorway in the corner. My feet move on their own, and again, I’m awestruck when I walk into the bathroom. The floor has transitioned from the gray rustic wood planks in his bedroom to a darkish gray marble. The massive shower has mirrors all the way around with what looks like jets everywhere, and it faces a big deep tub that has a marble step to get into it. Candles line the back of the tub, and I can just imagine how it would be.
“It’s so …” I try to find the words. “It’s so …”
“I love it, too,” he says. “Come and let me show you upstairs.”
“You really don’t have to give me a whole tour,” I tell him, but I follow him out of the bathroom past his walk-in closet, and we end up in the great room. “I will give you this; the layout is perfect.”
“It’s not the only thing that’s perfect,” he says, and I groan.
“I know,” I tell him. “I know you’re perfect, too.”
He stops and turns around to face me. We’re suddenly standing way too close, and our chests are practically touching. He lifts his hand and rubs my cheek with his thumb. I think I hold my breath because I’m not sure what’s going on. Maybe the champagne is just fucking with my head. “I was going to say that you’re perfect, but thank you for thinking I’m perfect, gorgeous.” He winks at me, walking away to the stairs. I put the glass of mimosa down as I follow him.
When I get to the top of the stairs, there is another living room that leads to an outside patio, but I don’t stop there. My eyes roam to the hallway and what looks like a game room. “Oh my gosh,” I say, looking at the framed jerseys all along the walls around the room. “Are all these yours?”
He nods his head. “This one was when I was drafted.” He points at the one all the way at the far end. “That one was the first jersey I wore in the NHL,” he says, pointing at the next one. I walk toward the wall and start going from one to the other. “What are these?” I ask him of the wall of pucks all in separate glass boxes.
“That was from my first goal ever.” He points at the box on the top with a smile. “I was five, and my mother kept it.” I look at him as he stands next to me.
“You, Miller,” I say to him, standing in front of him. “You are definitely unexpected.”
“Gorgeous,” he says, stepping closer to me. “We have just begun.” I’m waiting for him to lean in closer to me, waiting for him to kiss me. This is it, but am I going to let him kiss me? Do I really want to do that and confuse him and lead him on? This can’t go anywhere; my mind is fighting with itself. “Now let’s go start dinner,” he says, walking past me and toward the stairs, leaving me here suddenly wishing that he fucking kissed me.
I follow him down the stairs, and he points at the stool in front of the island. “Sit,” he tells me, and I raise an eyebrow at him. “Please.”
“That’s better,” I say and sit on the stool. He walks over and gets my glass and puts it in front of me. “What is on the menu?”
“Steak,” he says. Walking over to the fridge, he takes the steak out and puts it on the counter while grabbing other things.
“Do you want me to help?” I ask him.
“Are you kidding me?” He laughs, turning to grab the bowls. “You paid twenty-five thousand dollars for me, so the least I can do is cook for you.”
I laugh now. “I mean, for twenty-five K, I think you’re right.” I watch as he marinates the meat.
“What’s your favorite music?” he asks, grabbing a remote, and I shrug. “Michael Buble it is.”
I laugh when his voice comes out of the speakers. “Are you trying to seduce me?” I ask as he grabs something else and chuckles.