Total pages in book: 69
Estimated words: 65712 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 329(@200wpm)___ 263(@250wpm)___ 219(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 65712 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 329(@200wpm)___ 263(@250wpm)___ 219(@300wpm)
Once inside he places it in the spot I indicate. “It’s nice,” he comments as he steps back and surveys it in my place. “Now what?”
Now what what?
“That was it. Thank you,” I offer, a little confused.
“Lunch,” he responds.
“Lunch? Um, well, I have laundry and stuff to do.”
He pins me with an predatory glance and walks closer. I take a step back. Then another until I’m backed up against the wall. He leans down and I think he’s going to kiss me but then he’s tucking a strand of hair behind my ear and whispering.
“I’ll do your laundry.”
It takes me a minute because the tone he said it in was sexual rather than domestic. My mind has to catch up with the words and the fact that he just offered to do my laundry, not bend me over the kitchen table. And then I laugh. I give his chest a shove and laugh so hard I snort a little.
“What was that? A pickup line you use on beleaguered housewives? ‘I’ll do your laundry.’” Another giggle-snort escapes and I slap a hand over my mouth before adding, “I can’t even.”
Boyd just winks at me and then walks over to my bathroom, coming out with an armload of towels before crossing over to the closet where he finds my hamper and adds the towels before picking up the entire thing and heading for my front door.
“Hey!” I object.
“Do you have a washer and dryer in this place?” He pauses by my front door and glances around. “I didn’t think so. Let’s go.” And he opens the door and walks out.
What. The. Hell?
“Boyd!” I chase him into the hallway. He’s already two doors down by the time I catch up. “You can’t just steal my laundry. It’s weird. And kinda creepy.”
“I think the words you’re looking for are, ‘Thank you.’ I’m doing you a favor. You can use the washer and dryer at my place.”
“Um…” I stall.
“You’re welcome. Grab your purse.”
The thing is, it’s hard to say no to him. He’s got this way of looking at me that makes me agreeable. He looks at me like he really sees me, which is thrilling, yet totally terrifying all at the same. So I follow him to his car and I get in.
It’s not far to his place—less than two miles—but it’s Center City, Philadelphia, so we sit in some traffic. He pulls into a covered parking spot that appears to be assigned to him and parks, then we head in. The building is very modern and urban and the interior hallways have an almost hotel-like feel. But then we step inside his unit and I realize it’s a loft. A show-stopping, jaw-dropping loft. Hardwood floors play off the concrete ceiling and exposed ductwork. The walls are a mix of drywall and cement to break up the space with perfectly placed artwork and a wide screen television mounted to the wall. There’s a dining room table that would easily seat six but looks like it’s never used and a kitchen that’s the perfect blend between modern and warm with stools around an enormous island that I imagine is used all the time. An industrial metal staircase leads up to what I assume is a bedroom loft, while floor-to-ceiling windows line the opposite wall.
Whoever decorated this place would twitch over my own second-hand decorating style, but I don’t hate it. Quite the opposite. It’s very inviting. I don’t make any play at being polite, instead I walk around and investigate.
“What do you think?” Boyd asks when I turn back to him.
“When I was a kid I had this book about a mom bear and a dad bear and their twelve baby bears. And all the baby bears each had their own tree trunk—except the youngest. He was too little to have his own tree trunk, so he was still with Mom and Dad. Anyway, the other eleven baby bears each had a tree trunk and each one was different. Decorated to match their personalities. I was kinda obsessed with it.”
“So you’re saying you like my place?”
I laugh. “Yes. It suits you.”
“Laundry is upstairs,” he says. “Follow me.” And then he jogs up the stairs while I trail behind him. I was correct in assuming there was a loft bedroom at the top of the stairs. The half wall is solid, offering privacy from below. But from the top, you can still experience the stunning windows and views. I’m eyeing the bedroom layout—and his bed—when I realize Boyd already has the water running into the washer in a laundry room attached to the bedroom and is dropping my towels into the machine.
“Hey!” I enter the laundry room and tug at the clothes basket. “You can’t actually do my laundry.”
“Yes, I can,” he replies, straight-faced. “Who do you think does mine?”