Total pages in book: 127
Estimated words: 122382 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 612(@200wpm)___ 490(@250wpm)___ 408(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 122382 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 612(@200wpm)___ 490(@250wpm)___ 408(@300wpm)
Chapter 22
Matt
“Look at that,” I say as we get back to the car. “Not a parking ticket in sight.”
“Okay, smart-ass.” She pulls an unimpressed face. “So you got lucky.”
“I told you I was feeling lucky. In fact, I’m always lucky.”
Call me a romantic, but her hand moves very slightly, almost as though she’s about to touch her stomach. She doesn’t follow through, because that would be too revealing. Instead, she sends me a look: You’re crazy.
Maybe I’m crazy about you. “I wonder if . . .”
“Where are you going?” Her face is an absolute picture as I begin to wander up the driveway of the house I’ve parked in front of. Large, detached, with a Regency-period facade. Picture-box perfect, really.
“I’m just gonna have a look.”
“You can’t—that’s trespassing. It’s someone’s property! Matt, seriously,” she hisses as I saunter away. “Come back!”
“In a minute.”
“If you don’t come back here, I swear I’ll . . .”
I halt in my steps, feeling a slow smile spreading across my face. “Make it worth my while?”
“Urgh!” She crosses her arms. “I won’t call emergency services when you get bitten by a big-ass guard dog.”
“To be fair, it does look like the kind of place that should have security.” I glance up at the camera in the roofline. Then give it a wave. “Oh, look—it has.”
“Matt!” she kind of growls this time. Like an annoyed Chihuahua.
Because I don’t want to stress her out too much, I pull a key fob out of my pocket. “Who knew you were such a little Goody Two-shoes?”
“There’s nothing wrong with following rules,” she retorts pertly. “Rules are created for reasons. Mostly for reasons like you.” But then her mouth clamps shut as the security gate begins to close between us. Then open again almost immediately. “You live here?” she accuses.
“Yeah, I do.” I make my way back down the driveway and go to take her hand.
“Asshole,” she says, snatching it away. But she’s smiling. Reluctant and unimpressed (or pretending) but smiling anyway. And that makes me strangely happy.
“Would you like to . . .”
“It’s a little too late to ask me if I’d like to come back for coffee.” This she says with a cocked hip and a pat to her stomach.
The sight . . . that attitude. The suggestion in her words? It feels like a shot of stardust blown by an angel through my veins. “At least you know I can’t get you pregnant.” Too soon?
“At least, not again,” she concedes evenly.
At least not for a while, I think as she follows me up the driveway, and I bite my tongue to keep from saying, We’ll have such fun trying.
“I bet you’re one of those guys who loves his toys,” she says, spotting the Vanquish.
“Weird,” I murmur, studying it. I thought it was parked in the garage.
“It is a little weird. Unless you’re Batman.”
“You’re funny.” I input the security code at the front door. The locks disengage, and it clicks open.
“I see you got Batman’s front door too,” Ryan says as I press it wider and usher her inside. “Oh, my.” She turns a slow circle in the entrance hall, her soft-soled boots almost silent on the black-and-white tiled floor. She takes in the sweeping staircase, the antique table in the center of the hall with a silver urn that’s supposed to hold flowers, and the massive chandelier above it. “This is like something from Bridgerton.” Her voice sounds awe filled.
“Without the flowers,” I say. Ryan jerks around and stares at me as though I’ve grown another head. “I haven’t seen the show,” I add quickly. “Just the trailer and the advertising shit plastered all over the buses.”
“Which still leaves me kind of curious if you’ve read the books.”
I keep my expression bland to her questioning one. “Have you read them?”
“I’m impressed you even know what I’m talking about.”
“Behold.” I hold out my arms, the paper bakery bag dangling from my left wrist. “A modern man.” I give a theatrical bow. “Also, one who has sisters,” I say, straightening again. “There might be one or two of their romance books lying about,” I add knowing full well there are. Because Letty left them. Like unsubtle hints.
“That sounds like a line,” she says with a crook of her head. “A cover-up. Are you a closet romance fan, Matt?”
“Not closeted at all. Who doesn’t love love, Ryan?” I don’t wait for her to answer as I put down the pastries and help her from her coat. And she lets me. I chuck it over the newel post, and she pops her bobble hat on top before fluffing her hair.
“What?” she asks, catching me watching her.
I’m pretty sure the appropriate response is not I want to gobble you up.
“Nothing.” I shove my hands into the pockets of my dark jeans, shoulders up around my ears. “Kitchen?” No grand tour. We should probably avoid rooms with soft surfaces—beds and stuff.