Total pages in book: 62
Estimated words: 58940 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 295(@200wpm)___ 236(@250wpm)___ 196(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 58940 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 295(@200wpm)___ 236(@250wpm)___ 196(@300wpm)
“Do you own this place?”
“It belongs to the pack.” That wasn’t exactly an untruth. He’d built the cabin for the pack—a meeting place and a getaway for anyone who needed it. It had taken him four years, working weekends, but he’d loved every minute of it. Nearly every member of the pack had contributed their labor for it, too, which made it truly fitting as their home base.
“This property is worth a lot.” The awe in her voice should not please him so damn much. He didn’t want to impress her with money, after all.
“How much would you list it for?” He was curious about her skill as an agent. She said she’d lost a deal with him. Had she improved since then?
“Four ninety-eight for a quick sale. Five thirty if you wanted the perfect buyer.”
“The perfect buyer? Who is that, exactly?”
“It’s the person who will love your property as much as you do. The one who will take care of it, or improve it. The one who will give it a new story.”
He stared at her, fascinated. His agent sure as hell never talked about people loving his properties. There was no emotion discussed in any of his transactions. Yet, watching her face light up as she described this love for a property, he knew exactly what she meant. He loved every property he ever worked on. And it was, sometimes, hard to turn his back on them when he sold. He’d never considered finding the ‘right’ buyer as a means of easing that pain.
“How would you show me this property, if I were a client?”
One corner of her lips lifted and her eyelids drooped slightly, as if talking real estate was a form of foreplay for her. She returned to the front door and beckoned him over. He pictured her in the tight skirt and heels she’d been wearing on the day he met her, her long auburn waves done up in a French twist. No—scratch that—hair down for this fantasy, always hair down, tempting his fingers to wrap it in his fist and pull. He sauntered to her side.
“I think you’re going to be blown away by this place, Mr.—er—” She stopped, eyes seeking his face for help with her pretend game.
He didn’t want to tell her his last name was Steele. Not now, maybe not ever. “Cody.”
She rolled her eyes but went on. “Mr. Cody. It’s more a work of art than a mere building. One of the members of the CJ Steele Construction team built this one, and it has all the same touches, which raises its value significantly. In time, I believe CJ Steele properties will become as sought after as, say, Frank Lloyd Wright buildings in other cities.”
Cody gaped at her. Was she really comparing him with an architect? An artist? Some unknown emotion threatened to expand his chest beyond comfort. An itchiness came over him, like he needed to shift and run. But from what, he wasn’t sure. Maybe from the feelings closing his throat.
She stepped to the center of the room and pointed toward the floor. “The wood floor looks like pine, but it’s actually Australian cypress”—she shot him a questioning look and he nodded in affirmation—“which is a harder wood and far more durable. Notice the builder chose to leave the interior walls as the same rough log as the exterior. This is a classic CJ Steele technique of exposing the raw materials. He doesn’t hide anything; instead he puts it front and center. In his industrial remodels, he exposes brick and uses the steel housing for electrical wires as a focal point. Here, in this cabin, he brings the outdoors in, yet still provides every comfort you’d crave in a getaway.” She trailed off with her monologue and looked at him sheepishly. “I know it’s not really a CJ Steele house, but I would sell it that way. Maybe I’d be cheating the buyer, I don’t know.” She shrugged.
He tried to speak around the knot in his throat. When nothing came out, he pulled her against him and crushed his lips to hers.
She gasped, jerking in surprise, then softening into the kiss. He slid his tongue between her lips, holding her nape to keep her captive. Then, because the little control he had was slipping, he pulled away.
“So your royal highness can stand the digs while I run?” He didn’t know why he had to poke her with that again, when he liked her the way she was now, soft and appreciative. It probably had something to do with needing something to wedge between them, because as much as his inner wolf screamed she was his, he didn’t want her. Not a human. He wasn’t going to make his father right.
She flinched, and when she turned, the haughty tilt of her chin told him his barb had hit its mark. “Is this just a new cage to lock me in while you go off and do your thing?” She put her hands on hips, her perky breasts seeming to taunt him through her snug cotton tee. “Am I allowed to step out the door?”