Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 81208 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 406(@200wpm)___ 325(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81208 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 406(@200wpm)___ 325(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
I say a silent prayer to the universe for protection and take a deep, fortifying breath. Mr. Bjorn sounded husky and gruff on the phone, but there was a warmth to the timber of his voice. So what if he lives in a house that looks like it should belong to Dracula or the Adams family? Maybe it’s been in his family for generations. He’s probably old and frightened from the burglary.
I bang the huge brass knocker three times, wondering which door the thieves have broken into. I check the dark wood for damage, but it seems fine with no evidence of tampering. In fact, it seems strong enough to withhold an army or a pack of rampaging beasts. I wait for a minute or so, wondering if Mr. Bjorn has heard me, before audible footsteps make their way closer, a big lock is turned, and the door creaks open.
The house is dimly lit, but even so, Mr. Bjorn is clearly a massive man. At least a foot and a half taller than me and imposingly built, he’s dressed in dark pants and a sweater that clings to his broad shoulders and expansive chest. I have to crane my neck to meet his mysterious dark brown eyes. Definitely not old or frightened. This man is a gorgeous, imposing unit!
“Hi, I’m Goldie,” I say, and when he doesn’t respond, I add, “The locksmith.”
Remaining silent but with one dark eyebrow cocked, he steps back to allow me to pass. He smells good of something forest-fresh, and I crane my neck again as I enter a magnificent hallway with an elaborate staircase, beautiful black-and-white floor tiles, and a massive chandelier of candlelights. It appears as though it’s his ancestral home, as imposing portraits decorate the walls featuring men of a similar appearance but dressed for previous time periods. Downton Abbey, eat your heart out.
As I take in my surroundings, the man I assume to be Mr. Bjorn closes the door behind me.
Then he locks it.
I turn quickly, my gaze focusing on his hand and the large black metal key he’s gripping, and I must look alarmed because his eyes flash with embarrassment.
“I’m sorry. I have issues with security and always lock the doors. Not that it made a difference today.” He avoids my gaze, focusing instead on his hand and the key clutched between his fingers. It’s big and ornate, just the kind of key that makes my heart flutter. My fingers itch to caress the filigree detail. I brush off the feeling of fear and find it replaced with sympathy for his anxiousness and a little spark of heat that ignites between my thighs.
That sound, the turning of that big lock by Mr. Bjorn’s huge hand, has awakened my body, and I hope he doesn’t notice me pressing my legs together.
“That’s okay. I have a thing about security, too. Comes with the profession. Do you want to show me where your locks need replacing?”
“It’s this way,” he says, leading the way deeper into the gloom.
2
GOLDIE
I follow Mr. Bjorn through a long hallway, gazing into opulently decorated rooms as we pass until we reach a surprisingly modern kitchen. Dark shaker-style cabinets are topped with slabs of oak, complete with the rough bark edge. Copper pots hang from hooks, and a colossal stove dominates one corner. This isn’t an incompetent bachelor’s kitchen. It’s a space designed by someone who enjoys cooking or at least understands the importance of tasty, nutritious food.
A large old-fashioned wooden trunk rests in front of the back door, holding it closed, and the drilled-out locks are noticeable gashes.
“So, this is where they broke in?”
“Yes.”
He hauls the trunk out of the way with his giant hands, making the heavy work look so easy, I shiver. His huge biceps bulge beneath his sweater, and his back muscles ripple. I look him over, finding thick, muscular thighs straining against his pants and an ass capable of driving his slim hips in a punishing rhythm. His back muscles are so densely packed that they’re visible through his sweater. Suddenly dry-mouthed, I clear my throat.
Stepping forward, I rest my tools on the floor and inspect the damage. My cheeks are hot, but the under-cupboard lighting is dim enough to cover any evidence of my arousal.
Mr. Bjorn stays close enough that his scent settles around me, fogging my mind. Jesus. Am I so hard up for sex that just smelling a man gets me hot under the collar?
Yes, Goldie. Yes, you are!
He inhales deeply which I take to be the precursor to a sigh rather than an attempt to sniff me, too.
It looks like a relatively straightforward job, and I tell him as much. Mr. Bjorn nods, so I start to work. After I’ve been laboring for about five minutes with his serious eyes resting on my back like fingertips, he asks me if I want a cup of coffee.