Total pages in book: 64
Estimated words: 63862 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 319(@200wpm)___ 255(@250wpm)___ 213(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 63862 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 319(@200wpm)___ 255(@250wpm)___ 213(@300wpm)
The floors were the same gleaming dark wood as in the vestibule; the walls were gray.
Directly in the center of the space was a sprawling living area with four sofas, a giant coffee table, and a TV hanging over a gas fireplace.
To the left was a kitchen that melted into a dining room.
The cabinets were black, the island a waterfall of black marble.
It all leaned masculine but somehow didn’t come off cold thanks to the abundance of overhead, standing, and table lighting, little touches of brushed copper and aged bronze, artwork, carpet, and wood.
Whatever he paid his interior designer, it was worth every penny.
As I stood there, the scent of tomato, garlic, and basil wafted over to me, making my mostly empty stomach grumble.
“Layna,” Harrison’s voice called, making me turn to see him moving out of a door to the side of the kitchen that must have been a pantry.
Those damn sleeves were rolled up again. And he had a bag of those little pasta circles in his hand.
“I hate that I like your apartment,” I admitted, making a smile tug at his lips.
“I’ll take the compliment,” he said, making his way into the kitchen.
“You’re cooking?”
“I am.”
“You know how to cook?”
“I do.”
“I don’t.”
“You told me,” he said. “You can make a mean boxed mac & cheese, grilled cheese, or cheese omelet. You’re heavy on the cheese in your culinary pursuits.”
“In my defense, I’ve never had my own place with a kitchen to learn.”
“And when you crash with your cousins, you order in.”
“I also hate that you know so much about me and I know nothing about you.”
“You can ask me anything you want to know.”
“Who taught you how to cook?”
“The housekeeper when I was growing up. She wasn’t supposed to, but I was a lonely kid who hung out while she was cooking. Eventually, she let me start helping.”
“So you grew up rich.”
“The Valentine Group was created by my grandfather, fostered by my father, and passed to me after his passing.”
Maybe it was silly, but I felt some of the tension leaving my shoulders with each new nugget of information I was getting about him.
“Was your mother a businesswoman?”
“My mother died when I was three. Car crash.”
“I’m sorry.” My heart ached for him. Coming from a family of so many amazing moms, I couldn’t imagine having no mother figure growing up.
Harrison turned his attention to chopping up something green. His tone was a little more guarded when he spoke again. “I was raised by a nanny until I was eight. Then it was just the housekeeper at home most of the time.”
“Your father wasn’t around?”
“No.”
“Did you grow up here in the city?”
“No. I grew up in New Jersey mostly.”
“No way,” I said, eyeing him again.
I mean, it made sense. I’d hopped on a train into the city to come see him. Depending on where you lived in Jersey, you were only an hour or hour and a half away by train, ferry, or car.
“Wait… did we know each other growing up?” I asked, thinking that might make more sense for why he was so intent on staying married. “Did we go to school together?”
Though even as I asked it, it seemed unlikely. I’d gone to public school. Someone like a Valentine, coming from generational wealth, would have gone to one of the many prestigious private schools.
“No. I’m a few years older than you, sweetheart,” he said.
We were going to go ahead and pretend that pet name didn’t make my belly flutter.
“Did we hang out? Go to the same parties?”
“No. I never met you before Vegas.”
I opened my mouth, about to start in on the annulment, on his stubbornness about dissolving this so-called ‘relationship.’
But he interrupted me.
“Do you want to give yourself a tour?” he asked. “I have another half an hour or so before dinner is ready.”
Maybe some space was what I needed. Being pushy hadn’t worked with him so far. I needed to calm myself down.
“Okay,” I agreed, dropping my bag, then turning to walk down the hallway.
There was a study full of built-ins, the shelves full of books.
Did he read them?
Were they just décor?
Beyond the study were two guest rooms, all meticulously decorated but devoid of any personal details.
At the end of the hall was the primary suite.
And I swear it had more square footage than that whole hotel penthouse in Vegas.
It had the same sexy dark woods and warm, golden lighting as the living space, with a massive bed flanked by nightstands. Across from that was a long dresser with a television.
To each side of the dresser were doorways.
Curiosity piqued, I walked through the closest one and found his and hers closets that met in the center with a small seating area.
On Harrison’s side were dozens of suits, shirts, leisure outfits, workout clothes, and sleep pants.
On the her side?