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)
Daniel De Luca and Avani Tudor’s chemistry was electric in that movie, and there were lots of rumors swirling during filming that the two of them were having a torrid affair. If they weren’t, they should have been. I love to imagine the sparks between the actors on screen spilling over to real life; it makes watching so much more exciting. I’m still convinced Josh Lucas and Reese Witherspoon are destined to be together.
The bathroom door opens. My gaze falls on it like I’m lost and Ben is a homing beacon, but he doesn’t come out right away.
My stomach flips in anticipation.
I really didn’t think this through. Wearing a white tank top and white sleep shorts, I feel entirely naked. I hop into bed and sit up against the headboard, but I pull the covers over my bare legs just as Ben comes out of the bathroom. He definitely planned better for this moment, because he’s fully covered in navy PJ bottoms and a tight white T-shirt, which I’m appreciating the hell out of. Any stranger seeing Ben in street clothes could tell his chest is broad, but seeing it like this is a treat. He’s gorgeous.
“You’ve been making use of that home gym, I see,” I say, and then immediately want to die. I’ve basically just told him I’m ogling him.
The corner of his mouth lifts. I’m not sure if he’s pleased at the compliment or trying to cover a cringe. Maybe both.
I just can’t stop digging. “We had a gym in the basement of the apartment complex, but I was convinced it was a home for serial killers and therefore, quite logically, refused to go.” I need to get off the subject before he starts checking out my lack of abs. “Anyway, how was dinner?”
“We?” he says, pulling a couple of the pillows from the bed and a comforter that’s arranged across the end of the mattress and tossing them onto the couch.
“What?” Not for the first time, I’m not following his train of thought.
“You said, we had a gym. You and Jed?”
I sigh. “Yeah, me and Jed.” When I left New York, the breakup was so fresh it felt like a big gaping wound that would never heal. Now, the pain has subsided quicker than I expected. What’s weirder is my memories of him and us and our life together are . . . blurry. Like one of the watercolors that line the walls of this very grand house. Maybe it’s the ocean between us.
“Do you miss being a we?” he asks, and even though he’s asking me about my feelings, it’s like we’re studying facts on our questionnaires. He’s so focused on the answer.
“Not here in England,” I say. “You’re my we here.” My heartbeat trips in my chest at what I’m saying, not because I’m embarrassed but because it’s true. Ben and I feel like a we. “I should be asking you if it’s weird being a we. I know you don’t typically like a girlfriend cramping your style.”
I don’t expect him to answer the question, but he does. “It’s not as weird as I thought it might be.” He sits on the couch, his legs apart, his arm draped across the cushions on the back. I follow his movements, unable to look away from the lean, long lines of him.
“I’m going to take that as a compliment,” I say, and I tilt my head, wondering what his lips would feel like on my neck.
He nods but doesn’t say anything. I wish, not for the first time, that I could read this man’s mind. He has such a physical effect on my body, like I’m a firework waiting to light up whenever he’s around. I’m drawn to him—the sea pulled toward the moon. I want to know if he experiences the same reaction to me.
“Do you think you’ll go back to the US?” he asks.
I let out a small, nervous laugh. “Of course. The position at the bank here is just for five weeks. It’s an opportunity to impress the CEO. Besides, where else would I go?” My friends are there. It’s the city I call home. “Anyway, I want to know what happened with the duke when I was gossiping to the duchess about Daniel De Luca.”
“Right.” He pulls back the comforter and settles down on the couch.
“So?” I ask.
“Ray?” he responds, and I’m flummoxed for a second until I realize he’s trying to make a joke.
“Nope.” I clear my throat in preparation to sing—or make the noise that, for me, approximates singing. I’m a horrible singer. “La, a note to follow So, Ti, a drink with jam and bread. That will bring us back—”
“Please stop that.” He winces in a brooding, hot way.
“Only if you tell me what happened with the duke. Is he going to sell?”