Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 84829 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 424(@200wpm)___ 339(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84829 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 424(@200wpm)___ 339(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
Because the place was small. Shabby and small. The furniture was, hmm, best way to describe it would be bachelor-on-a budget. It reminded me of my college days. The leather couch was worn out. The square table in the corner with four mismatched chairs looked second-hand. The giant flat-screen television that hung on the wall seemed to be the only item purchased in this decade.
This was so odd. So very un-Scott like.
He waltzed in, cutting across the living room to enter through an open door on the other side, which was technically, only a few feet. With great reluctance, I followed. His bedroom was so small two people could barely move around in there. No orgies in this bedroom. There wasn’t much in the way of furniture. A sad wooden chair sat next to a dresser with a few missing knobs. A king-sized bed with a cheap navy-blue comforter and two lumpy pillows. Thea had once mentioned that he slept on a fifty-thousand-dollar handmade mattress imported from Sweden. This was definitely not the one. He’d made the bed though. That was something.
“So, um, where will I be sleeping?” The question was begging to be asked because no way, no how were we sharing a bed.
“On the couch,” he suggested. And that’s exactly what it sounded like––a suggestion. Although it was obvious by his expression that his choice would’ve been anywhere outside the state of Wyoming. “I have an inflatable mattress if you prefer. Stacked washer/dryer is in the kitchen,” he continued with a completely straight face. It wasn’t even an exaggeration. The washer/dryer was located right next to the stove. Little did he know I’d slept in worse places.
“And where should I set up my computer? The printer? My work area?”
I’d be video conferencing with all the department heads at least once a day. Not to mention Frank and the board members and my executive team. A work space was more important than where I slept.
“The table.” He shrugged and crossed his arms over bulging pecs. If he was waiting for me to lose it and run screaming from this cabin, he’d be waiting forever. I nodded and went to check out the electric outlet instead.
“What’s the cable and WIFI situation out here? I’m getting spotty coverage on my phone.”
“It’s not the best.”
“You don’t mind if I get my tech guy out here to look at it, do you? I know you wouldn’t want to jeopardize company business,” I asked with a jaunty smile.
His blue eyes narrowed a fraction. “Knock yourself out.”
“No need. I’ll just get my tech guy out here.” More smiling. “Now, if you don’t mind. I’d like to use the bathroom.”
Scott motioned with his head and frowned when I walked by, our shoulders brushing. As soon as I made it past him, I caught a trace of his scent. Sandalwood, a touch of bergamot…musk.
It was the same scent that had claimed my attention earlier that morning when I’d opened the door only to be harassed by his virility. He’d crossed into my personal space, as he’s wont to do, before I had a chance to retreat. One sniff was all it took for the memory to come flooding back. I’d been cursed with a highly developed sense of smell, and the same way I couldn’t tolerate the smell of lavender candles or cigar smoke––because it invoked memories of my childhood––Scott’s scent brought back memories of one stolen kiss in a dark coatroom all those years ago.
Closing the door, I leaned back against it and released a sigh that emanated from the bottom of my tired soul. Absently, I glanced around the bathroom. It too was small and cramped. Faded navy blue towels hung neatly from a chipped towel bar. A gallon-sized bottle of Listerine sat on the rim of the sink keeping company with a toothbrush and toothpaste in a drinking glass.
Again, all very un-Scott like.
Where was the man who valued opulence and luxury and his own comfort above all else? Where was the happy-go-lucky loser? Maybe he’d found Jesus, I thought. Maybe the open space and clean air had driven him mad. He certainly never displayed a tendency to brood before. I didn’t believe people could change their nature, but maybe Scott had channeled all of his worst qualities into something more productive and yet (unfortunately) infinitely less congenial.
My gaze fell on my polished crimson toes. Mud and flecks of grass stuck to my right foot. I’d promised Frank I’d bear Scott. For how long I could do it was yet to be determined.
* * *
“Still wanna marry me?” Scott asked as soon as he pulled the pickup truck into the Four Seasons’ driveway. He shut off the engine and turned to look me squarely in the eyes. Was he trying to purposely intimidate me? If he was, I had news for him: it wasn’t working.