Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 84075 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 420(@200wpm)___ 336(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84075 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 420(@200wpm)___ 336(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
Can I really do this? Move in with a man I barely know—a man I barely like—and leave my family behind? It’s terrifying, this leap I’m taking, and I feel like I’m soaring through the air with no net beneath me, no parachute to break my fall, nobody down there to catch me. Only Ford and me, plummeting together.
It’s terrifying, but it’s also exciting.
I get to furnish and decorate this apartment however I want. It’s a blank canvas and I can go wild. I’m already spinning through ideas and dreams, and I’m itching to get started. The only drawback is I’m doing this with him, with Ford, but if I ignore the fact that I don’t like him all that much then it’s really not so bad.
I’m dizzy as I reach the top of the steps. He looks back as I steady myself on the wall and his handsome lips quirk down. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. Just tired.”
He considers that for a moment longer before leading me into the master bedroom.
It’s bigger than I expected. There’s a huge king mattress with four tall posts and netting around the top like a princess’s bed. The closet is bigger than the one in my room back home and the attached bathroom is borderline absurd in its luxury. I run my fingers over pristine countertops and stare at the enormous shower with its dark tile. “You really do like black,” I murmur to myself.
“Come back out here,” Ford calls from the main room.
I stand in the bathroom doorway leaning against the frame as he watches me from the foot of the bed. My hands rub against my thighs nervously and I don’t know what to think. It’s beautiful and comfortable and nicer than I ever dreamed, but it’s also cold and impersonal and foreign and strange. I’m supposed to make this place a home, but how am I supposed to do that when I’m living with a man I barely know?
“Can I ask you something?” I blurt out before he starts saying whatever it is he’s thinking.
“Go ahead.”
“What’s your favorite TV show?”
His eyebrows raise. “Do you plan on decorating this place in the style of Seinfeld?”
“Really, Seinfeld?”
“Seriously, Kat, I’m not into the whole retro ‘90s thing.”
“No, that’s not why I’m asking. My favorite show is The Office, by the way.”
“That’s in my top five.” He tilts his head. “Are you trying to get to know me?”
I take a step forward, frustrated. “That’s the idea, isn’t it? I mean, you’re supposed to be my husband but I don’t actually know anything about you.”
“I am not a list of my favorite media.”
“I know that, but it’s a place to start. What about music? You like music, right? Don’t tell me you’re into, like, death metal or something.”
“I have a record collection. Mostly jazz.”
I laugh a little. “You do? Jazz? Sure, right, okay, you collect records, why not. What else don’t I know about you?” He stares at me and I feel stupid, almost childish, but I can’t help myself. All this is stuff that would’ve come up sooner or later through dates or conversations or whatever, except we’re skipping all that and diving right into the living portion of our lives, and I don’t know if I can sleep in the same bed with a man if I don’t even know if he prefers The Beatles or The Rolling Stones. Not that it matters, but the fact of knowing means something.
We’re strangers and the gap between us feels bigger than ever.
My heart starts racing and I turn away from him. I walk to the window and look out at the city and, oh my god, we’re up really high and, oh my god, I’m going to live with this man, with this total stranger, and I have to be his wife.
“Kat,” he says and stands. I can’t look at him right now. “What do you want to know about me?”
“Anything. Everything. I don’t know, something to make me feel like you’re not some total stranger.” I turn on him and I’m trying to catch my breath but I can’t seem to calm my speeding heart. “You want me to move in here with you but I don’t even know your middle name or your favorite color and, oh my god, don’t joke right now and say black, I swear I’ll punch you in the throat.”
“No need to throat punch,” he says. “My favorite color is green.”
“God. Right. Sure. Like money.”
“No, green like grass after it was freshly cut. A bright, summer green.”
“Oh. That sounds kind of nice.”
“My favorite smell is freshly turned dirt. You know, the smell of your boots after you come in from planting flowers and it’s this deep, rough, musky smell? Yes, I plant flowers, don’t look at me like that. I like to garden, and I like to work outside with my hands, and when the landscapers come every year to do the mansion’s beds, I always go down and join them for a few hours. They tolerate me because I speak to them in Spanish. I also know French, Italian, some Mandarin, some Japanese, and a bit of Russian.”