Total pages in book: 122
Estimated words: 115618 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 578(@200wpm)___ 462(@250wpm)___ 385(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 115618 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 578(@200wpm)___ 462(@250wpm)___ 385(@300wpm)
I spin in the expansive space, something I couldn’t do back at mine without stubbing a toe on the bed or futon. I feel so comfortable here that I wonder if I can ever go back to a shabby studio without remembering that time I stayed in this apartment. Anything I can afford will pale in comparison.
So I might as well make the most of it. Taking my time, I run my fingers along the windowsill and over the console under the TV.
The marble in the kitchen has charcoal-gray veining, reminding me of Rad’s suits and how incredible he looks in them. It’s cool to the touch and tempting to press my heated cheeks against.
I bend down and open the wine fridge. Taking full advantage of making myself at home, I pull out the bottle he opened for me the other night. I search two cabinets before finding the one with shelves of different styles of glasses, one for anything you can imagine, from whiskey to champagne. Then I pour myself a drink.
Sipping my wine, I explore the rest of the apartment, except Rad’s room. He left the door open, but I don’t dare walk in. That would be a complete invasion of privacy. He’ll never know that I peeked, though.
I move into my new room to plan. There seems to be plenty of room in the closet, and I feel spoiled for having my own bathroom. Setting my wineglass on the dresser, I return to the hall and drag each box back to the room, taking the time to unpack each one. Other than the rest of my clothes, I’m officially moved in.
Not ready to settle in for the night, I top off my glass and curl up on the couch. Night falls, and though there’s cloud coverage, I love the feel of the darkness consuming the large space.
I grab a book from my room and flip it back to where I left off . . .
“I don’t even know your name, so more than a drink might be a bit presumptuous.”
He sticks his hand out. “Jack Dalton. I was named after my dad’s favorite writer, and there are rumors,” he says, lowering his voice and looking around before his eyes land back on mine, “that we’re distantly related to the Dalton Gang. It’s nice to meet you.”
“Jack Dalton.” A warmth covers my cheeks and down over my chest when our hands touch. It’s ridiculous that I still blush at my age, but I do, and I might be falling for his overly confident act, something I would never do back in LA. “So you’re an outlaw, huh?”
Dropping the smile, he looks away briefly as if checking the surroundings for eavesdroppers. His expression lightens when he turns back. “I guess you could say that, but I prefer Jack.”
“Jack. I like Jack, but I think I’ll call you Dalton. Seems more fitting.”
Chuckling, he says, “I can handle that.” He takes a sip of his drink, then looks me over. “Holliday is a beautiful name.”
My heart starts to race from his sweet words and the sincerity in his eyes. “My mom was a little quirky. I think she heard it on a soap opera once or a Christmas special. My friends call me Holli. It’s more normal.”
“Normal sounds boring, and nothing about you is boring.”
“What are you reading?”
The book flies from my hands and slides across the wood floor. “Rad!”
“Hi, Tealey.”
“Good Lord, don’t sneak up on people like that.” His tie is hanging undone along with the top two buttons of his shirt. The smile on his lips makes me think he caught me doing something naughty. Not naughty, but definitely heated.
“I actually didn’t sneak. I walked right in and said hello.”
My heart is still racing when I realize where it landed . . . at the toe of his right wingtip shoe. His shoes are so shiny that the book reflects against the leather. I gulp, slowly getting up as if he’s easily spooked. “Sorry I didn’t hear you,” I say, trying to sound less weird about being caught just before I was hoping to read a sexy scene. “I got lost in the story.”
“Must be a good book.”
“It is. Really swoony.”
When his eyes flash to the paperback at his feet, I scramble to mine, slipping in my socks on the slick floor. I lunge for it, but he picks it up and turns it over in his hands to read the back cover copy. “The Resistance? What’s it about?”
I don’t know why my face feels hot. It’s a romance. The world needs more love in it. “It’s, um . . . there’s this self-made heroine.”
“You’ve got my attention.”
“She meets a famous rock star, but she doesn’t know he’s famous.” Refusing to look him in the eyes to save me the embarrassment, I stare at his hand as he flips through the book.