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)
“I can’t, Anthony. I don’t want to—"
“Please.” I cup her face in my hand, struck by how familiar she feels, how precious. It’s like I’ve known her for so much longer than a day, and I’d like to keep knowing her. Which means getting her out of this sketchy hotel and even sketchier neighborhood. “I need to know you’re safe.”
She studies me for a long moment, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth as Pudge rubs his head against my sleeve. “Are you sure? I don't want to impose…”
“You're not imposing. I’m insisting.” I glance down to where the cat is still butting his large head into my arm. “And Pudge obviously agrees with me.”
As if to prove my point, Pudge starts purring like a motorboat, before straining his neck up to lick my hand and then Maya’s chin.
Maya laughs, tension easing from her shoulders. “He does seem to like you. Which is kind of weird. He usually hates men.”
“Smart. A lot of men are trash,” I say, agreeing with Pudge again. “But I’m not, and I promise I’ll do whatever it takes to make sure you’re comfortable and safe tonight.”
“Okay.” Her lips stretch into a slow smile. “Thank you. Again.”
“My pleasure, beautiful,” I say, and it is. Especially when she says she’s happy to come to my place, as long as it’s okay to have pets in my building.
I have no idea if pets are okay, but if there’s a problem, I’ll pay the Airbnb host whatever it takes to make it go away. That’s one of the best parts of having an obscenely large amount of capital at one’s disposal. Money can take care of a lot of life’s many problems.
But not all of them…
As I watch Maya gather her things, Pudge now in my arms, still purring like the cat who won the war against his evil radiator nemesis, I know money can’t help me out of my current predicament.
I’m starting to have feelings for this girl.
Already.
After one night.
God only knows what a fucking mess I’ll be after a week in her sweet company, but a demented part of me can’t wait to find out. Playing house with this woman will probably end in disaster, but until that happens, I like the idea of knowing she’s going to be sleeping right down the hall.
Or even better, in my bed.
chapter 8
MAYA
I’m not Cinderella. Or Rapunzel. Or Sleeping Beauty.
I’m an independent woman who stands on her own two feet. I make my own money and solve my own problems, all while looking out for my family and friends.
I’ve never needed a prince to swoop in and save me, which is a good thing since, thus far, princes have been in very short supply in my life.
But as Anthony and I are whisked south toward the East Village in another cozy cab he didn’t hesitate to pay for and he singlehandedly wrestles the picnic basket and blanket, my suitcase, and my backpack up the stairs to his fifth story walk-up, leaving me with nothing to worry about except Pudge in his carrier, I can’t deny that it feels good to be taken care of.
It feels great actually.
Stepping into Anthony’s adorable apartment with its brightly colored décor and cinnamon-scented air feels even better.
Though I have to confess his home isn’t anything like I imagined it would be on the way over.
Anthony’s personal style is the height of classic luxury—all cashmere, leather, and tailored wool—while his East Village walk-up exudes bohemian charm. Exposed brick walls hold mismatched floating shelves filled with well-worn books, their spines cracked and loved. A Moroccan rug in deep jewel tones covers weathered hardwood floors, and fairy lights twinkle along the exposed beams of the ceiling. The whole space feels like somewhere you’d find by accident and never want to leave.
Like a hobbit cottage, but big enough for two humans and an extra-large cat.
“I love your place,” I breathe, taking in the eclectic mix of vintage furniture as I wander through the small kitchen into the living area. A leather armchair that’s seen better days sits beside a pristine mid-century modern coffee table. Art prints—everything from Monet to abstract pieces I don't recognize—create a gallery wall that somehow works despite its randomness.
“Thank you,” he says with a slightly uncomfortable laugh. “It’s kind of a hodge podge of everything.”
“It’s great,” I assure him, understanding how awkward it can be to show your home to someone new. I put Pudge’s carrier on the ground, setting him free to explore, while I set up his portable litter box in the far corner by a vintage record player stand my friend, Elaina, would kill for.
Pudge inches slowly from his cozy cave, visibly relaxing once he’s glanced around to find no menacing radiators or other looming threats. He does a circle of the room, sniffing until he seems confident that he’s the only furry creature nearby before leaping up to investigate a burgundy velvet armchair near the sealed-up fireplace.