Total pages in book: 112
Estimated words: 105697 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 528(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105697 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 528(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
“The horrors,” he deadpans. I almost thought he was asleep, but apparently, his humor is up and active. “I do.” His tone is defensive as his arm tightens over me, dragging me into his fold. Though I love lying in bed wrapped in his arms, he’s a hot box, so I’ve been slowly gravitating away to put some air between us. “There’s a phone charger and my phone.”
Sadly, I think he finds that funny.
I roll to my other side. I’ll never understand what I did right in this life to be the one lying next to him. “There are no cookie crumbs, no journal, no random books that you’ve started but haven’t finished, no framed photos, no jewelry you forgot to take off before getting into bed. There’s not even a glass of water, let alone a fancy French bottle of water, in your case. No lotion, and—”
“I get it. You don’t approve of my clutter-free apartment.”
“It’s beautiful, but your heart and soul live somewhere else.”
He kisses my shoulder twice before closing his eyes. “They’re right here. In my arms.” Snuggling against me, I watch the exhale that tells me sleep is upon him.
He needs rest. So do I, but I worry about the life he’s living in the city. I shouldn’t. He’s a grown man and has lived like this his whole life. But in Mountain Laurel Cove, he fits right in with the stuff that’s around, nosing through yearbooks on my shelf, and studying the detailed woodworking of the kitchen cabinets. He’s never said a thing about clutter or looked bothered.
Caressing his cheek, I ask, “Do you feel at home here?”
He opens his eyes with a lazy smile forming. Tapping my heart, he says, “I feel at home here.” It’s a good answer. Charming, but I’m not convinced it’s the truth.
His phone buzzes like it has, off and on, for the past few hours. It woke me up earlier, and I’ve been awake ever since. Maybe it’s a sign to let this go. I’m still curious, though. “You’re not even tempted to check it?”
“Not really. I don’t care what they say about me in the media. But if you want to look, you can.”
“What if it’s your agent again?”
“More reason not to check. I’m firing him in the morning.” He sighs, but then leans forward and kisses my forehead. “Tonight, I want to sleep.”
Raising my free hand in surrender, I say, “Hint taken.”
I close my eyes, willing my turbocharged brain to relax and let me sleep. After a torturously long time of forcing my eyelids to stay closed, I pop open my eyes. “How are you going—”
“You didn’t even last ten seconds.”
“Really? Felt like ten minutes.”
Propping up on his elbow, Daniel brushes hair that’s escaped my scrunchie back from my face, and says, “You’re not going to sleep, are you?”
“Probably not. There are all these sounds outside, and I thought I heard someone slam a door shut in another apartment.”
“You didn’t. The floors have soundproofing, and the windows are the highest-grade thickness allowed in buildings that are also completely soundproof.”
My imagination got away from me. There’s nothing for my mind to focus on, so it made stuff up. Everything around me is so unfamiliar except for Daniel. But this is him in his world, not mine. “Maybe that’s the problem. It’s too quiet. There’s no breeze through the leaves or water at the shore. There’s not even a buzz from an adventurous bee who left the apiary to explore—”
“Summer.” Falling backward, he hits the mattress and his head lands on the pillow. “Ugh.” Shifting to look at me, he asks, “What do you need to sleep?”
“I don’t know.” I half shrug, blocked by the bedding. “Fresh air and—”
“Come on.” The covers are flipped off both of us in one swift motion, and his feet land on the floor like a man on a mission. I don’t move, a little worried that I’ve driven him to madness. Holding out his hand, he says, “Trust me.”
“Since you put it like that . . .” I take his hand and slip out of bed. He leads me into his closet and gives me a T-shirt he pulls from a hanger. I’m not sure what in the Christian Bale American Psycho he’s got going on in here, but tees should always be folded.
I slip it on over my head, and then the boxers that he handed me right after, while he pulls on a pair of sweatpants and nothing else. Okay, I’m softening to this idea he has if I get to ogle him in sweatpants that highlight all the good stuff that’s under them.
“Where are we going?”
“You either trust me or don’t.”
“You’re so bossy when you’re tired.” Realizing that shouldn’t stir a tightening in my belly, but here we are. I’m blaming the sweatpants.