Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 90337 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 452(@200wpm)___ 361(@250wpm)___ 301(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90337 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 452(@200wpm)___ 361(@250wpm)___ 301(@300wpm)
“Only once?” His brows drift higher on his forehead.
I nod. “Yep. Not a lot of culinary diversity in Sea Breeze and running a business like mine doesn’t leave a girl a lot of time to drive to Portland for curry.”
“Sounds like we need to start making up for lost time,” he says. “We have several options for Thai food in the neighborhood, including my personal favorite, The Jealous Papaya. Their green curry and coconut chicken soup are the best in the city.”
“Yum. I’ll have both and fried spring rolls, please.” I grin. “But I do have one follow-up question. Why is the papaya jealous?”
He gives a slight shake of his head. “I’m not sure. I’ve never thought to ask.”
I tsk my tongue. “Really? That shows a lack of curiosity, Mr. Mendelssohn. And a lack of curiosity could be a sign of depression. Or burn out. Or an overall lack of imagination.”
His lips quirk. “I appreciate your concern for my mental well-being. I’ll take that up with my therapist next week.”
“A therapist, huh?” I hesitate, but then decide it isn’t bad manners to ask about his therapist since he brought it up. “Is there something special you’re working on or is having a therapist just a rich person thing? Like getting a massage every Saturday?”
“A little of both,” he says, not seeming bothered by my questions. “I didn’t have the best childhood, but I worked through that some time ago. Now, it’s more about maintenance, and it’s nice to have someone impartial to talk to.”
“I can see that,” I say. “Or I can imagine it anyway. I’ve never had therapy. We couldn’t afford it when I was an angsty teen, and I grew up to be a pretty non-angsty adult so…” I trail off, fighting to control my tongue, but losing the battle again. “So, what did your therapist think of your plan to fly to Maine with a contract offering to get a strange woman pregnant with your baby in exchange for a condo and never seeing her again once the kid was born?”
He shrugs, seeming to consider that a moment before responding with his usual dry wit, “I didn’t tell her you were strange. Do you think that would have altered her feedback?”
I narrow my eyes as the car slows. “Ha ha. You didn’t tell her, did you?”
“I plead the fifth,” he says, before reaching for the door handle. “And we’re here.”
I peek through his open door at a limestone masterpiece that makes me feel underdressed just looking at it from the outside. A beat later, the driver opens my door just as a man in a smart-looking black uniform appears to load our luggage from the trunk onto a small cart.
“You can just leave them in the entry, Pete, thank you,” Hunter says to the man, discreetly slipping a twenty into his hand.
“Of course, Mr. Mendelssohn. Welcome home,” Pete says with a professional nod for Hunter and a smaller nod acknowledging me. But he doesn’t make eye contact before he wheels his cart away, indicating we won’t be bothering with introductions at this juncture.
Which is fine. I doubt Hunter introduces his casual lady friends to the staff, and though what we’re doing isn’t casual, it is temporary.
The fewer connecting threads established between us, the better.
“Wow,” I murmur as we step through the sliding glass doors into the lobby, which is even more opulent than the exterior—all marble and crystal and old-world grandeur with fresh cut flower arrangements fancier than the ones at Maya’s wedding scattered thoughtfully throughout the space.
The understated white leather couches in the sitting area perfectly complement the ornate molding; the art on the walls is museum quality, and the self-serve beverage bar is stocked with three different coffee roasts in sterling silver carafes, as well as a wide variety of chilled drinks in the glass refrigerators beneath. Even the fridges are fancy and designed to look like they date to a bygone age of finery and filigree.
The only thing slightly out of place is the woman behind the security desk. She’s gorgeous, but in an edgy, modern way, with a spiky platinum haircut and tattoos peeking out from beneath the neck of her crisp uniform shirt.
She’s also hot…
Like, crazy hot…
When she looks up, dazzling, ice blue eyes meet mine, and her cheekbones take my breath away. If beauty standards for women weren’t still evolving at a snail’s pace, she could have been a model. But as it is, with her broad, muscular shoulders and equally sculpted forearms, she’s too traditionally masculine-looking to make it in the mainstream fashion world.
But she could certainly be cast as a lead in a movie adaptation of any of the spicy lesbian novels I’ve been reading lately.
And she does, indeed, seem to swing that direction, if the eye contact that she gives me as Hunter stops to fetch his mail is any indication…