Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 84394 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 422(@200wpm)___ 338(@250wpm)___ 281(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84394 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 422(@200wpm)___ 338(@250wpm)___ 281(@300wpm)
The setup is similar to mine, but Elliot’s friend has a lot more furniture than I do, giving the apartment an expensively crowded feel. Large leather couches with overstuffed cushions. Reclining man-thrones. Squat bookshelves in every corner, and prominently displayed writing awards on the wall.
Matted and framed equals validation. At least we have that in common. But based on his décor alone, that and enjoying Elliot’s company might be the only things.
His style is what Tani would call opulent masculinity. Like a guy who wears a giant Rolex and douses himself in Axe body spray while talking about his money and how often he gets laid. And the pictures on the wall are… “What does George write about again?”
Before Elliot says a word, I’m willing to bet my cardboard Quinto that the man is obsessed with—
“Political thrillers.”
I lost the bet.
“He’s got the mind for it, too. He basically called the insanity happening in Washington now over six years ago. I think that’s why his publishers wanted him to write the sequel as soon as possible. And why I lucked into apartment-sitting until he gets back.”
I want to tell him Orwell called what’s happening now—along with most science fiction authors and the two old dudes who sat in the park across from my high-rise talking politics all day. “Are you sure that’s all he’s writing about?”
Elliot doesn’t have the best poker face. It’s one of the things I like most about him. I watch him not looking at all the black-and-white pictures of a certain scantily clad and well-known pin-up icon covering the living room walls, and I know he knows why I’m asking.
“It’s art,” he mutters.
I cover my mouth with a hand to hide my grin. He notices and bumps his shoulder against mine. The first time we’ve touched since the kiss. “I took down the racier stuff when I got here and hid it in the closet with the statue.”
The statue? He has a statue of Bettie Page?
He rolls his eyes at my expression. “He says she’s his muse. He doesn’t fondle it or anything.”
“Fifty shades of sure he doesn’t,” I finally manage, making him laugh out loud.
“That book I do know. The guys took turns reading it out loud on the bus. There was no escaping it.”
A bus of manly men reading BDSM fanfic about vampire fanfic? “That’s a visual I never knew I needed.”
Elliot grins, standing close enough that I can feel his body heat.
Why does he have to smell so good? And if he would stop looking at me like I was his favorite person, that would go a long way toward helping me get through this without embarrassing myself.
“Until now, George was practically my only friend not connected to the game. We don’t have a lot in common and he’s an acquired taste. But he’s loyal.”
Until now. He’s talking about me, isn’t he? “Loyal is good.”
He tilts his head toward the kitchen, taking a step in that direction. “Come and see the chaos in the kitchen. Rue’s made enough pancakes to feed an army.”
“I think we’re up to the challenge,” I manage, picking up my pace to put some distance between us.
We reach the kitchen in time to see Rue balanced precariously, one foot on a stepladder and the other on the kitchen counter, hands raised over her head in an attempt to reach the cabinet.
I’m no professional athlete, but I have seen my share of accidents that started out this way. Which is why I’m already on the move when the ladder wobbles and her bare toes slip on the flour covered counter at the sound of her father’s startled, “What are you doing up the—Rue!”
I catch her and pivot in one move so her momentum doesn’t send us both crashing into the butcher block. Dipping her as if we’re dancing, I give her an encouraging grin as the bright fear in her expression settles into surprise and awe.
“You caught me?”
“I did.” I wink. “Good thing I was wearing my superhero shirt.”
Eyes a shade lighter than her father’s drop to the lightning bolt in fascination. “Can I have a superhero shirt?”
I screw up my face, as if considering, before setting her back on her feet. “Can you run fast, like your dad? Faster than the speed of light?”
She frowns. “I can swim.”
“I love to swim. I used to try to keep my ankles together and pretend I was a dolphin.”
Rue gasps and her pout disappears. “I do that!”
I tap her chin, right on that adorable dimple. “That does it. You definitely get a shirt. Now are we still having pancakes? Because moving this fast uses up a lot of calories and I need more to recharge.”
She mouths the unfamiliar word as she nods. “Daddy, we need plates so he can have more calories.”
I glance up at Elliot, expecting the pallor and adrenaline-based anxiety that parents usually experience with a near miss. And it’s there, but there’s something else in his eyes that makes me break contact and clap my hands together. “Point me to the plates.”