Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 105175 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 526(@200wpm)___ 421(@250wpm)___ 351(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105175 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 526(@200wpm)___ 421(@250wpm)___ 351(@300wpm)
“Honestly, it doesn’t even look like you live here.”
“I don’t really.” I turn in time to see him shrug. “I hardly spend any time here. I work long days, and when I’m not at the office, I’m at the club.”
I frown. “That’s so…”
“Depressing?” he fills in for me before he downs the rest of his drink and sets the tumbler down in the sink. “Yeah, well, I don’t bring many people here for a reason.”
He’s being defensive, and I don’t blame him. I feel bad for poking at his life. I could have easily gone home after the wreck—we were only a few minutes away from the co-op—but instead he brought me here. I don’t want him to regret that decision.
“Well, if it matters, I’d rather live in your empty house than my ridiculous co-op.”
He turns back and smiles. “I think you have more furniture crammed in that tiny room than I have in this whole house.”
That thought makes me laugh. “And most of it I found on the side of the street.”
That surprises him. “Really? That bookshelf?”
I beam. “Yup. I sanded it down and repainted it.”
He nods, impressed. “Maybe I’ll commission you to furnish this place.”
I snort. “Yeah right. This is the sort of house you fill with Eames armchairs and Rothko originals.”
“I’m more of a paint-by-numbers kind of guy.”
I laugh at the absurdity of that statement. “Yeah, right. I’ll make sure to bring you one the next time I see you.”
He smiles and crosses his arms, leaning back against the counter on the other side of the island. I take in the black lounge pants and Caltech t-shirt he changed into. The dark gray material looks like it’s been washed a million times, soft and worn. His feet are bare, which is adorable in its own right.
Then it hits me, like a stiff punch to the gut—I AM IN JAMES ASHWOOD’S HOUSE. I’m in his kitchen, hanging out, and he feels so comfortable he’s not even wearing socks!
Maybe he’s noticed that I’ve gone silent, but he doesn’t try to coax me out of it. It’s infuriating, how comfortable he is in his own skin. I’m squirming on his barstool with a bourbon-soaked sleeve, sifting through lame topics of conversation until I land on one that is probably inappropriate, but interesting nonetheless.
I decide to lead into it slowly, so I don’t spook him and his bare feet—and no, I don’t have a weird foot fetish. Except, maybe I do…he does have nice feet…
“What’s on your mind?” he asks.
Your stupid feet.
“Oh, um, I was actually wondering about your last girlfriend? Someone told me she had a drug problem or something?”
Well, so much for leading into it slowly.
He sighs, like the subject still weighs heavily on him. “I’m guessing you mean Rebecca?”
Shouldn’t he know who his last girlfriend was?
“Um, I guess so? Pretty blonde?”
“Yeah, that’s Rebecca. We weren’t anything serious.”
Silence follows, which means if I want answers, I’m going to have to ask the questions outright.
“And she was into drugs?”
He clears his throat and stalls, clearly irritated by the topic. “Among other things.” He’s focused on a point just over my shoulder, and maybe I should take his closed-off demeanor as a sign to change the subject, but I’m interested. I want to know if he’s truly single or if he has a druggie ex-girlfriend who keeps him up at night. “It was a hard time. Rebecca and I weren’t together long, but those few weeks happened to coincide with her downward spiral. When we first started dating, I didn’t even realize she was using.”
“Wow.”
“She’s doing well now. Last I heard, she was in California at a rehab facility.” He frowns and drags his hands through his hair. “I don’t know. I’m coming off callous about the whole thing, but I hardly knew her. She was my date for a few public functions. I never even brought her here.”
My heart is a drum during a Dave Grohl solo—THUMP KICK POUND THUMP KICK POUND.
“So you only bring certain women here?” I ask, probing just a liiiiittttle further.
His eyes meet mine, and I’m surprised to find a hint of amusement there. “As you can see, it’s not some big prize. In fact, I think you might be the only woman I’ve ever brought here.”
SWOON.
“Because you’re embarrassed by your red plastic cups?” I quip, because I’m incapable of enduring an intimate moment without making a joke.
His focus shifts to his stack of disposable cups and then back to me. “Well, most of the time they invite me back to their place.”
REVERSE SWOON. Of course. I hadn’t even considered that.
“Oh. So none of the women you’ve been involved with have asked to come here?”
“In my line of work, you get pretty good at saying no. I’m not into the idea of someone moving in and spending a bunch of money decorating a place I hardly spend time in.”