Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 81947 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 410(@200wpm)___ 328(@250wpm)___ 273(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81947 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 410(@200wpm)___ 328(@250wpm)___ 273(@300wpm)
Var tossed me a quick grin before focusing back on the road. “Thanks, beautiful. I’m a fan of you, too.”
I slapped my hand over my mouth. My words were muffled by my palm. “Crap. Did I say all that out loud?”
“You sure did.”
“Can I take it back?”
He winked as he playfully growled, “Absolutely not.”
We pulled into the Four Monks parking lot.
This time instead of taking the elevator that led to the main lobby and his public office, he hustled me into a different, private elevator. I watched in awe as he typed out a seemingly endless entry code onto a tiny pad.
As he ushered me into the elevator, I rested my head against his chest. “I’m hungry.”
I always got the munchies as my high wore off. It was like my body tried to hold on to the fun feeling by consuming fried foods and sweets.
The doors opened to a posh penthouse suite. My mouth dropped open. “Is this where you live?”
He tossed his car keys onto a massive claw-footed marble table in the center of the octagon entranceway. “Yes, and no. I own the Queen Anne Townhouse next door as well, but I spend half my time here because it’s convenient.”
Leaning heavily against the table, I pulled off one painful high heel then tried to pull off the other as I kept swaying. “More convenient than right next door?”
He placed a steadying arm around my waist as he pulled off my shoe. “Empty houses can be lonely places.”
I rested my head against his shoulder as I sighed. “I know. My parents weren’t around much when I was growing up. I hated rattling around in that stupid empty house by myself.”
It was why I’d turned to painting at a young age. There was something definitely lonely about a solitary hobby. By painting, I could convince myself that being alone was a choice.
He kissed the top of my head. “For me, it was different. I grew up in a small community with a large family filled with cousins and second cousins and third cousins. Half the time the floor of my bedroom was covered with mats and sleeping bags where my cousins and friends would sleep, rather than heading home. I guess I just got used to all the noise and chaos.”
Closing my eyes, I smiled as I leaned into him. “That sounds nice.”
“It was,” he whispered against my hair. “Still hungry?”
My eyes sprang open as I clutched my stomach. “Starving!”
He gestured with a nod. “This way.”
His kitchen was part of an open floor plan connected with a gorgeous living room space that all shared a wall of arched windows overlooking the sleepy, tree-lined street of Gold Coast Chicago.
I climbed up onto the barstool at the kitchen island. “Have anything to drink?”
“Yes, coffee.”
My nose wrinkled. “Buzz kill.”
“What do you want to eat?”
“What do you have?”
He opened his refrigerator. It was empty. As in literally empty.
“Did you have a power outage?”
With a shrug, he closed the door. “I usually eat downstairs in the restaurant.”
“What about when you bring women home?”
With his hands leaning on the kitchen island, he tilted his head and gave me a strange look. “I don’t.”
His answer caused a flutter in my stomach. It was probably the pot, I convinced myself, even though I was sobering up by the minute. The cotton candy was dissipating.
Anxiety, anger, and panic were creeping along the edges of my consciousness. I could feel the cold darkness as it tried to overtake the rosy glow I was so desperately trying to hold onto.
“So you’re not going to be all sexy by making me some traditional Mongolian or Russian dish?”
Raising his arms, he said, “Afraid not. But I do place a pretty sexy phone call down to my chef.”
Clapping my hands, I swung my feet under the barstool seat. “Deal. I want a banana split.”
He raised an eyebrow. “A what?”
“A banana split with extra cherries.”
“What the hell is a banana split?”
I hopped off the barstool and moved around the island to place both my palms against his chest. “Oh, my God, you’re so freaking strong…” I tilted my head back. “And tall.”
Giving myself a mental shake, I focused. “What was I saying? Oh, yeah! A banana split is the greatest thing ever.” I counted off on my fingers. “There are bananas, of course. And vanilla, chocolate, and strawberry ice cream, hot fudge sauce, fresh strawberries, and a cherry on top. Now some people add pineapple and this weird, crushed walnut sauce, but that’s gross. Oh, and it has lots of whipped cream.”
He picked up the phone. “Get me the chef.”
As he ordered the banana split, I leaned against his arm and rose onto my toes to talk into the phone receiver. “Extra cherries and no gross walnuts!”
Var laughed. “Did you get that? Good. Send up a carafe of strong coffee and a club sandwich as well.”