Total pages in book: 124
Estimated words: 117415 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 587(@200wpm)___ 470(@250wpm)___ 391(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 117415 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 587(@200wpm)___ 470(@250wpm)___ 391(@300wpm)
It’s the longest slightly-less-than-an-hour drive I’ve ever had.
TJ implied he more or less comes from money. Big local family business and all that.
But I don’t think I quite imagined just how “big” that meant.
I end up parking halfway down the long-ass driveway like I’m scared to get too close. The enormous house rises up in front of me like a damned mountain. It isn’t just big; it’s estate-big, the kind of residence that makes you feel embarrassingly underdressed the second it hits your eyes.
From here, I see so much, and I already know it’s just the tip of the iceberg: a huge, distant pavilion tucked behind tall white ironwork, breathtaking hedges trimmed perfectly into lines and arches, flowerbeds exploding with color, trees framing the whole place like it’s posing for the cover of some ritzy home-and-garden magazine. There’s even a shimmering, peanut-shaped pond out front, complete with a fountainhead scattering diamonds of water into the air, because of course there is.
I’m damned near ready to call this place a palace. I’ve got to catch my breath as I stand here next to my cheap-ass rental.
Who in the hell is this TJ? The prince of Spruce?
I guess he saw me pull in (or partway in, rather) because I find him standing out front. He is such a vision of gentlemanliness, the way he awaits me, hands hooked behind his back, dressed in a loose short-sleeved button-up shirt and shorts, looking like a doll. Despite the intimidating exterior of his house, I’m still resisting the urge to race up to him, pick him up, tackle him down onto the first soft surface I find, and dive into his face.
“Um, hey,” TJ says for a greeting. “Welcome to my house.”
I spread my hands. “What? No drawbridge?”
He snorts and rolls his eyes. “I’d hardly call that pond a moat.”
“Well, I don’t see what’s all that impressive about it, then.” I cross my arms and shrug, eyes darting around. “I mean, sure, your house is kind of massive, but …” I squint at the top of the door. “Is that a gargoyle?”
He doesn’t even look. “Yeah. My mom sorta has a thing for … for gargoyles. They’re ugly and made of stone, but will protect you with their lives.”
I nod slowly, appreciating it. “So your mom’s responsible for this gorgeous-ass atrocity. Hmm.” I glance at TJ. “I see where you get your sensitivity and imagination from.”
“Not so fast,” he teases. “I also inherited her neuroticism and historic bad taste in men.”
“Bad taste in men?” I lean against the doorframe. “Does that include me?”
“Too early to tell,” he teases back. “But … my mom got it right at least once. I mean, I do have a dad.” He grins.
I already sense TJ growing comfortable around me. Maybe the joke about the moat and drawbridge thing was the right move. He probably had a morning—and likely many awful days—of building up this reveal in his head, worried it’d turn me off or something. He’s battling anxiety while trying to play it cool for my sake.
And I sure as hell don’t want him thinking I’m not taking this seriously.
So I tell him, “I appreciate you showin’ me the real you.”
He meets my eyes. His humorous grin fades, traded for a more sincere smile. “This is … a part of me, sure. But what parts of this comprises the ‘real me’ or not, I’ll leave that up to you to decide.” Then he holds open the door. “Ready to get outta the heat?”
I smile, then come to the door.
Then find myself unforgivably fucking close to him.
There are two doors—a double-door situation. He only opens one, and he stands partly in the way, which brings us very close as I pass through—and his relentless gaze falls upon me, full-force.
I stop right there. “What lies beyond these doors,” I promise him, “doesn’t mean one damned thing to me, when you insist on lookin’ at me with those cute-ass eyes of yours.”
He smirks, then jabs me in the rib, causing me to hop forward. “You say that now,” he teases, “but you haven’t seen the kitchen, curved double staircase, or the guest wing that could house your whole band and crew.”
“No offense to them, but they’re not allowed here with a ten-foot pole.” I reconsider. “Might need a hundred-foot pole. You can play a football game on that front yard.”
“Just get inside already,” he growls.
I cross the threshold. The first thing I notice is the echo of my footsteps on the smooth, shiny tile. My eyes go all the way up, then down, left and right and straight ahead. How much shock should I display on my face without overdoing it? “Damn,” I let out—and hear my “damn” returned to me by seven corners of the house. “This place has better acoustics than half our venues.”