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)
“Lower ground floor is a screening room, gym, hot tub—that kind of thing.”
“Pool?” I ask.
“Nope. Seemed a waste to put it in just for me.”
“Whereas living in a ten-thousand-square-foot home on your own is just fine.”
“It’s nine and a half thousand. We all have different lines in the sand.”
“For future reference, I would have liked a pool. I mean, if you can, why not?”
“We can discuss it once we’re married.”
My heart somersaults at his statement. I know he’s joking, but just the thought is . . . almost too much. “It cost you thirty thousand just to get me to wear the ring for a week. Getting me to the altar is going to be expensive, let me tell you.”
“This is the master bedroom,” he says, ignoring me. “The designer insisted on two bathrooms and two wardrobes for resale value. So I suppose this is yours.” He leads me through the simple but large bedroom into a bright-white marble bathroom. “It’s never been used. Obviously.”
“What a waste,” I say, running my fingers along the book-matched marble. “You mentioned the designer. They’ve done a tremendous job, and you have a beautiful house, but how much of it is you? You’ve said yourself your background is humble, which this place isn’t. Does it feel like home?”
He shoves his hands in his pockets again, and the corner of his mouth twitches. “I’ve grown into it.”
That doesn’t tell me much. I cross my arms and transfer my weight from one hip to the other, waiting for him to elaborate. Two can play the brooding wordless hero—I’ve seen enough Daniel De Luca films to get the part down pat.
Ben knows instantly I want more and emits a small sigh. “It was slightly uncomfortable at first. But the designer did a good job interpreting what I wanted. It’s not too bright or . . . zany.”
I can’t stop my laugh. “No, it’s definitely not zany. It’s moody and—”
“Vampirish?”
“Yes. And no. The feel is intense and atmospheric and . . . kind of just like you. But it’s also comforting and warm and . . .”
“And you can’t reconcile comfort and warmth with me.” It’s not a question. “Got it.” He turns and heads out of the bathroom.
I scurry after him. “I wasn’t saying that,” I call. But wasn’t I? If I’m being honest, I haven’t seen the side of him that’s all comfort and warmth. There have been hints—him talking to me about my mother and his parents. It would have made much more sense if the house were full of rooms that were stiff and formal and a little clinical. “It’s just that I could live here. Like, without a question, I could move in tomorrow and feel completely at home.”
“I don’t see how that’s a bad thing.”
“It’s not. Not at all. It’s just . . . unexpected.” I’ve never seen this side of Ben. I’ve found traces of his kindness and generosity; he’s obviously not a monster. But I haven’t had a chance to see all of him yet. The man who likes to walk around barefoot. The guy who lounges around in gray sweats, reading books about taxidermy and performing bears. The one who hides his humor so deep I can’t help but wonder what else is buried there.
“I’m sorry,” I say, and I reach for his arm as I catch up to him in the hallway. He’s all warmth and hardness and my hand fits against him, slotting into place—a key to a lock.
He tries to shrug me off. “It’s fine.”
I hold tight. “It’s not fine. I was saying it really badly. It’s just . . . I feel really at home here, yet it’s so grand and you’re almost a stranger. It shouldn’t make sense that I feel so comfortable. That’s what I was trying to say.” I pause and he meets my gaze. “And I feel I know you so much better now that I’ve been here.”
His stare heats me from the inside out. After a few tense moments, when I can practically hear his brain whirring to compute everything I’ve just said, he nods. I have to release his arm and look away before I go up in flames.
He shows me a couple of guest rooms that look like they’re from an exclusive, high-end hotel before we take the elevator down to the basement. I can’t help but think how someone’s home communicates something about their personality. Melanie’s home is crammed full of things she’s collected from her travels across America. It partly reflects the fact that space is at such a premium in New York City, but it also shows how sentimental she is, and how she’s a wanderer.
My dad is still living in a house that’s barely been touched since my mom died. He likes it that way, just like Melanie likes her disorganized chaos.