Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 85089 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 425(@200wpm)___ 340(@250wpm)___ 284(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 85089 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 425(@200wpm)___ 340(@250wpm)___ 284(@300wpm)
I expected to find Roza hard at work on breakfast, but stopped short as I stood at the end of the counter and stared at Roman.
He had a shirt on, thank the stars. His hair was slightly damp, probably from a recent shower, and he moved around he kitchen like he was used to cooking. He had on a simple black t-shirt and jeans, though every stitch of him looked like it was custom designed to draw out his aching and gorgeous muscles. I stared at his arms, gaped at his back, and felt a strange thrill down through my stomach as he plated eggs, then pulled out finished crispy bacon, and looked over his shoulder.
“Breakfast is almost ready. Sit down.”
A command. Not a request. Even at six in the morning, this guy was too much. “I didn’t think you’d do your own cooking.”
“I don’t normally, but I thought you’d want a show.”
I gave him a solid outrage-snort. “I’m not sure what you mean.”
“I mean, you’ve been standing there staring at me for the last two minutes.”
My cheeks turned red. A solid seven, and he hadn’t even said anything outrageous. “I was surprised to see you, is all.”
“Sit down.” He brandished the spatula like a weapon. “You look hungry.”
I didn’t know how a person could look hungry, and I was pretty sure I should be offended, but I listened and sat down anyway. He brought over coffee, which I instantly poured down my throat, because coffee, and leaned back with a sigh.
His apartment was surprisingly nice for an underground bunker. A lot had gone into making it seem homey and comfortable despite the lack of natural light and windows. The bulbs were all a warm yellow color, lending the whole place the feel of a high-end steak house, which was only magnified by all the natural woods and earth tones. The rugs were thick and looked Persian or something like that, and the couches and chairs were in black and brown leather.
Although I wanted to scan my surroundings and work out a plan of escape in case Roman turned out to be some kind of psychopath intent on skinning me alive or whatever, I couldn’t take my eyes off him.
There was something about the way he moved—confident, controlled, measured, like he was a gymnast on a balance beam making only the most optimal motions, all of it centered around a specific goal. Flipping eggs, making more coffee, putting the milk away. Concise, specific, like a choreographed routine. And the guy was only cooking. I had to wonder what he’d look like doing other things.
Like, uh, running. Or lifting weights, or fixing a car.
Not like running his fingers through my hair, his palms down my body, his mouth wrapped around one of my stiff, pink nipples.
He joined me at the table with half a slice of grapefruit and some weird green smoothie thing. I frowned at his plate.
“I didn’t take you for a healthy kind of guy.”
“You don’t look the way I do by magic.”
“I’m just saying, grapefruit? I hate grapefruit.’
“Can’t say I’m surprised.”
I arched an eyebrow. “I feel like I should be insulted.”
“Why do you dislike grapefruit so much?”
I waved a hand in the air. “It’s gross and bitter. I mean, a fruit that you have to add sugar to isn’t a fruit, it’s an abomination.”
“I don’t add sugar.”
“That’s even worse. And what’s in that drink?”
He sighed and rubbed his temples. “I didn’t invite you here to critique my eating habits.”
I let out a sharp breath and drummed my fingers on the table. “Sorry. When I get nervous, I start saying whatever comes into my head. It’s a really bad habit.”
“Must make you a lot of friends.”
“It really doesn’t. But then again, at least I don’t eat grapefruit. Seriously, who eats grapefruit? Psychopaths. I can’t trust a man that eats grapefruit.”
He took an exaggerated bite and chewed while staring into my eyes. I looked at his lips, his tongue, and oh my god, it was weirdly erotic.
I shut my mouth and stopped talking.
“Are you finished?”
“Yes. Mostly. Probably. I’m still nervous, so I might start—“
He held up a hand. I stopped talking.
“I need to talk to you about something.” He watched me very carefully as he took small, measured bites. He drank down some of the smoothie and tilted his head. “You’re staring at me like you’ve never seen another human being before.”
“You shot a guy in the head last night and now I’m staying in some secret underground bunker in Jersey City and I’ve got a closet full of designer clothes that happen to fit me, so I’m a little freaked out.”
Which was an understatement. I was extremely freaked out, and the near-death experience was the only thing keeping me going. I was running on fumes and adrenaline and pure fear and my extremely strange but incredible intense physical attraction to this man.