Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 92411 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 462(@200wpm)___ 370(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92411 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 462(@200wpm)___ 370(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
“My dad . . . It was almost worse for him, I think. I got to move away to the city, but he still lives in the house I grew up in. He’s surrounded by memories of her.”
Ben pulls in a breath and shifts in his seat, but not in a way that makes me think he feels awkward. More he’s making himself comfortable. “Maybe he likes it like that.”
“Yeah,” I say, thinking about the curled list still pinned to the refrigerator door. “I guess he does.”
“I think my dad would be exactly the same if my mum died. He worships her.”
I give out a small smile. “That’s nice.” I like the idea of Ben growing up with parents who worshipped each other. Every kid deserves to see devotion growing up. “Did you grow up in London?”
“On the outskirts. Hertfordshire. Dad used to commute into town to work.”
The questionnaire falls away and we’re just talking. Two people getting to know each other, simply for the pleasure of it. If I didn’t know better, I’d think the moment was real.
Chapter Twelve
I haven’t studied so hard since college. Every evening this week, I’ve pored over the papers Ben filled in. I’ve spent hours in my hotel room, reading and rereading until my eyes watered. But I have thirty thousand dollars to earn, so here I am, in front of an almost-stranger’s house. Obviously, I was expecting Ben’s place to be impressive, but as the door opens to reveal the marble floors, sweeping staircase, and an elaborate chandelier, I realize I’ve underdressed. I’m in jeans and my old Sarah Lawrence sweatshirt. This is supposed to be a casual dinner.
“Ben is just on a call,” the slight, older lady who opened the door says through a beaming smile. “I’m Lera, his housekeeper. He won’t be long. Do come in. Can I get you a cocktail?”
“Sure,” I say, tipping my head back to take in the circular window in the ceiling at the top of the winding staircase. This place is grand but somehow also cute AF.
“Anything in particular you’d like? Ben said you enjoy a Kir Royale?”
My heart trips in my chest. Ben has clearly also been studying his comprehensive guide to Tuesday Reynolds. Him mentioning my favorite drink to his housekeeper was thoughtful and charming and kind—the sort of thing a real boyfriend would do. I meet her gaze to find her twinkling at me. “That would be wonderful. Thank you.”
“Let me show you through to the drawing room.”
The walls of the drawing room are almost black, and one wall has backlit bookshelves that give the room a book-shrine feel. The furniture is dark wood and burgundy velvets with lush, expensive cushions and billowing drapes. It has a definite feel of romanticism about it, like I might find Lord Byron behind the sofa, passed out from too much opium.
I’m about to start examining the bookshelves when the door sweeps open and Ben appears. It’s the first time I’ve seen him in anything but a perfectly tailored suit, and my stomach swoops at the sight. At-Home Ben is sockless, in cuffed sweatpants and a white T-shirt, his hair ruffled like he’s just come off a difficult call, his brow tight, and his eyes trained on me.
I might be recovering from heartbreak, but in Ben’s presence, it’s hard to remember. He’s like coming into the AC on max after a walk from the subway in August.
“The sweatpants suit you,” I say. “And here I was thinking you might be Dracula.”
“I only wear my cloak on special occasions,” he says without missing a beat.
“But seriously,” I reply, nodding at the room. “It’s moody. Dramatic. I feel like I should be in a corset and carrying smelling salts.”
“I’d never discourage you from listening to your gut. Feel free to wear a corset next time you’re here.” Does he know how funny he is? I can’t decide if he’s cooler than a fan or just plain uptight.
Would there be a next time? Soon we’d be heading to the country, and then on Sunday evening, when we arrive back in London, my job will be done. I’ll be thirty grand richer, and I’ll likely never see Ben again before the bank’s annual health check.
“Shall I show you around?” he asks. “You should be familiar with the place at least.”
I nod. “Absolutely. I get to see the coffin too, right?”
He doesn’t respond but leads me straight to the kitchen. It looks like something in a magazine, only nicer. It’s big and expensive, but not showy or brash. The dark-color theme continues with what looks like tarnished bronze accents, dark-stained cabinets, and swathes of backlit black-and-white marble.
“Where’s your refrigerator?” I ask.
“Over here.” He indicates what looks like more cabinets. He pulls it open to reveal a huge larder fridge, with a smattering of fresh fruit, vegetables, and dairy. “You hungry? Or are you trying to discover where I hide the dead bodies once I’ve drained their blood?”