Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 90899 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 454(@200wpm)___ 364(@250wpm)___ 303(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90899 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 454(@200wpm)___ 364(@250wpm)___ 303(@300wpm)
“Or I could…” he trails off as we round the corner. The view opens up, revealing a carefully manicured, Asian-inspired section of the garden. We pause at a wider place in the path, soaking in the wooden bridges arching gracefully over the frozen pond, their railings draped in lights that glow a warm orange. Stone lanterns peek through the snow like ancient sentinels and the dormant cherry and willow trees arch graceful limbs over the cold ground, protective of the sleeping plants beneath the snow.
“Or you could,” I prompt after a moment, glancing up at him from the corner of my eyes.
He turns, fixing me with another one of those breath-stealing looks of his. “I was going to say that I could come with you, but that could get complicated and I… Well, playing the protective big brother isn’t really why I’m here.”
My cheeks heat again, but I hold his gaze as I say, “No, it’s not. And I’d rather you not think of me as a little sister. If that’s okay with you.”
“I don’t,” he says, his voice deeper, with that husky edge that makes me shiver. “Though I probably should. I’m old enough to be your father, let alone your brother.”
I arch a brow. “Fifteen is awfully young to be making babies.”
“But possible,” he counters, even as he shifts closer. “I had a serious girlfriend at fifteen.”
“I hadn’t even kissed a boy at fifteen. Not even close,” I find myself confessing. But he already knows I’m a virgin. I doubt he’s surprised to hear that I wasn’t out exploring my sexuality in my sophomore year of high school. I lift my chin, breath coming faster as he angles his head to one side. “And I like that you’re older,” I say, pulse throbbing in my throat as his lips move closer to mine.
“Why?” he murmurs.
“You’ll know exactly what to do with me,” I whisper, my nipples tightening against the silk of my bra at the hungry sound that vibrates from the back of his throat.
“I’m not so sure about that,” he murmurs as his free arm goes around my waist, drawing me against him.
Before I can ask what he means, his lips are on mine, and he’s kissing me with that slow, easy confidence that turns my bones to wax.
Hot, molten wax, melting into a puddle at his feet…
His tongue glides against mine, stroking, exploring, and I press closer, craving more of his heat, his touch.
By the time he finally pulls back from the kiss, I’m buzzing all over, warm despite the chill in the air.
Still, I shiver, but it’s not the cold to blame.
It’s the certainty that, sooner or later, Anthony is going to touch all the tingling, aching places beneath my clothes that has me trembling as he takes my hand in his. “The pagoda has heat lamps on the ceiling,” he says, clearly mistaking the reason for my shiver. “Let’s get you warmed up and fed. I don’t know about you, but I’m starving.”
I nod, enjoying the feel of his gloved hand in mine as we cross the bridge to the elegant structure poised on a small hill above the garden. “I’m always hungry in New York. Too many good smells around every corner.”
“Best place to eat in the world,” he agrees as we climb the steps to the pagoda and move inside the cozy haven. Inside, the ceiling is strung with lights interspersed between the heat lamps, making it feel like we’re spreading our blanket under the stars.
Paper lanterns sway gently in the winter breeze, casting soft shadows across the wooden floor, but the lamps keep the chill away. Soon, I’m out of my mittens and my coat, the cold-induced tension easing from my muscles as Anthony unpacks a veritable treasure trove of fancy deli food.
There are meats and cheeses and artisanal pickles and a loaf of bread that smells like heaven as I tear off a chunk to dip in the olive oil Anthony drizzles onto a small plate he brought for the purpose. There are also two salads—one a traditional Greek with feta and vinegar dressing, the other a grain salad with almonds and cranberries—apples, pears, and champagne that dances lightly on my tongue before fizzing down my throat without a hint of sourness.
I told him last night that wine makes me say embarrassing things, but champagne is even worse.
Champagne goes straight to my head, a fact I prove by sighing halfway through our meal, “Can we live here? Right here? In this pagoda, with this food. Forever?”
“Yes,” he says without a beat of hesitation. “Though we might have to have more food delivered. And add a bathroom onto the pagoda on one side. It would be a long walk to the visitors’ center in the middle of the night.”
“And I like a hot bath before bed,” I agree.