Total pages in book: 82
Estimated words: 78334 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 392(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78334 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 392(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
The building looked typical from the outside. Restored brick. Romanesque arches on the upper floors. Ornate stonework. A building that would house perhaps a law firm or boutique investment group.
Then he’d turned into the alley.
A steel garage door had blended so seamlessly into the stonework that I almost missed it. A small box mounted on a pole stood sentry… the type you hold up a badge to for entry. But Cole leaned toward it through his open window and I gasped when I saw a red scanning beam move over those expressive green-gold eyes.
The door lifted, we entered a private parking garage, and Cole pulled into a corner spot. Next was a smooth ride in an elevator, after which he guided me down a quiet corridor that had apartments on either side—wood doors with brass knockers and labeled with letters instead of numbers.
He led me to apartment C and opened the door with an electronic key.
“This is where you work?” I’d asked.
“And live,” he said.
The apartment itself had surprised me. A blend of modern steel and reclaimed wood, tall ceilings, exposed brick on one wall. That’s about all I’d taken in before he walked me straight to this room, told me to sleep, and I’d been too wrung out to argue.
Now, in the daylight, I hear movement beyond the door. A soft clink of ceramic. The low gurgle of a coffee machine.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed and engage in a long yawn and stretch. I grab a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt from my bag, lace on some sneakers and run a quick brush through my hair before I decide I’m ready to face Cole.
When I open the bedroom door, the apartment unfolds in front of me—a long, spacious living area anchored by a kitchen island of dark stone. Floor-to-ceiling windows line one wall, the morning light diffused by the usual haze drifting over the city.
Cole stands at the island with his back partially to me, hip leaning against the counter. He has a mug of coffee steaming in one hand, the other hand working the track pad on his laptop as he reviews something. Morning light from the wall of windows catches along the hard line of his shoulders and the thick column of his neck.
I look for the differences or similarities after five years apart. His dark hair is slightly longer on top than the military cut he used to wear. He has it pushed back in a way that exposes the scar near his temple I used to trace with my fingertip when he couldn’t sleep. It wasn’t anything so interesting as a war wound, but rather he’d run into the corner of a cabinet when he was a kid, earning a handful of stitches.
He’s wearing a plain black T-shirt that stretches clean across his back and chest, fitted in a way that showcases his dedication to the gym. The sleeves hug his upper arms, and I know—without seeing them—that the ink beneath is still there. The compass on his left bicep, the wildfire line work circling his right that he had placed as a permanent reminder of the heat he’s walked through.
Cole turns just enough that I catch his profile—the sharp plane of his jaw, the faint shadow of stubble he never quite shaves smooth, the straight line of his nose that was broken once and set well enough to pass. His mouth is firm but not unkind, lips pressed together around whatever he’s thinking. His eyes, when they flick toward me, are the same unusual shade of hazel that used to pin me in place and make me forget what argument I was trying to win.
I forgot how handsome he is.
No—that’s not true.
I tried to forget.
My eyes drop before I can stop the movement, skimming down the front of him where the T-shirt stretches across his chest, remembering the feel of those muscles under my palms, the warmth of his skin, the way the ink beneath would flex when he laughed. I remember mornings at my kitchen island in Fremont, him shirtless and barefoot, coffee in one hand, looking exactly like this—only then, he’d reach for me without hesitation.
Now there’s distance measured in more than just space.
He senses me watching and turns fully, one brow lifting slightly as his eyes sweep over me in return. It isn’t crude. It isn’t possessive.
It’s assessing.
And barely beneath it, there’s a feeling dangerously close to the same heat curling low in my stomach.
Great.
“Morning,” he says, voice rough with what I always imagined was the smoke of a hundred fires he’d battled in his life.
For a second, the memory of his mouth against mine is so vivid I have to curl my fingers tighter around the doorframe to stay upright. “Morning,” I reply.
“Sleep?” he asks.