Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 93224 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 466(@200wpm)___ 373(@250wpm)___ 311(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93224 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 466(@200wpm)___ 373(@250wpm)___ 311(@300wpm)
The valet at my building opens Andie’s car door like she’s made of something breakable. He recognizes me, and probably her too—if not her face, then the fact of her, that ineffable beauty and grace she carries. I tip him, and he looks at her, not me, when he says, “Have a nice night.” Andie thanks him in the voice that is unbelievably melodic, and I swear the poor guy swoons.
Inside, the elevator is as hushed and exclusive as a bank vault. It’s private, programmed for penthouse only, no stops, no witnesses. Andie is still and fragrant, then smiles at the floor numbers as they tick up, up, up. She smells like a rainstorm in June combined with something feminine and ineffable—some combination of innocence and sharp, expensive want.
At the top, the elevator opens straight into my home. That always gets a reaction; most people expect another hallway, or anything but instant exposure to someone else’s entire world. Andie stops dead on the threshold, as if she’s afraid the view will knock her over.
I watch her scan the space: the endless sheet of glass to the left, running the entire length of the living room, looking out over the black ribbon of the river and a city strung with lights like neurons firing. On the other side, a massive wall of white, hung with two abstract paintings the size of coffin lids. One is red, a bloody hex grid fractured with lines like open wounds; the other is blue, a spiral so deep and saturated it feels like it might swallow you. The rest of the space is all cool stone, pale wood, and furniture that looks designed to survive a nuclear war in style.
I toss my keys onto the kitchen island. The sound echoes. “You can take your shoes off, if you want,” I say.
She glances at her heels, then at me, then slips them off, standing a little shorter but ten times as relaxed. “Are you always this tidy?”
“I’m not tidy,” I grin. “Mrs. Olsen is tidy. She comes every morning at seven and makes sure I don’t die of bachelor squalor.”
Andie giggles and runs a hand over the marble of the kitchen island, slow and deliberate, like a jeweler checking for flaws. “Mrs. Olsen must be a saint.”
“She is,” I agree. “She leaves food, too. If you’re hungry, there’s cheese and whatever else you can dig out of the fridge. Wine?”
“Yes, please,” she says, and suddenly she’s softer—like the decision to accept is the only power move she needs.
I pull a Zin out of the fridge, not the best I own but still impossible to get in most zip codes, and pour two glasses. Set the bottle and both glasses on the end of the island, along with a slate slab with a wedge of cheese, some brown crackers, a pile of almonds shiny with oil.
She takes the glass from me and holds it up to the light, as if she’s going to guess the year just by looking. Then she sets her nose to the rim and inhales.
“Are you one of those people who can tell what region a wine comes from by the smell?” she asks.
“No. I just know what I like.” I watch Andie sip, slow and careful, and for a second she looks like a different person: more woman than girl, more predator than prey.
She sets the glass down and leans back against the counter, arms crossed. Her bust is pushed up and I’m distracted, my dick jerking in my pants. “So am I part of your M.O. tonight?” she asks. “Do you always take girls up here, and impress them with the view, the cheese, the wine?”
I smile, not because she’s wrong but because she’s only half right. “Actually, I’ve never brought anyone here before,” I say. “Not in that sense.”
She lifts an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Liar.”
“Not lying,” I say, and mean it. “If I wanted to show off, there are a lot of different ways. I’d take you to the lake house. Or the suite at the Four Seasons. This is home, so it’s different.”
She absorbs that, and for a second, neither of us moves. The city’s reflected in the glass behind her, the lights painting her gold and electric blue.
“You’re staring,” she says, without looking at me.
“So are you,” I reply, and watch the blush rise in her cheeks.
For a minute we just drink, taking turns picking at the cheese and the almonds. She eats with her fingers, licking the salt from her thumb after every bite, and I can’t help but imagine her licking other things. The thought tightens something in my chest, then lower.
We move to the large plate-glass window, and I stand beside her, both of us looking out over the river and the labyrinth of streets below. She leans her forehead to the glass, then turns to face me, her breath making a fogged oval on the window.