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)
But today isn’t a day for pondering future frugality. Today is a day for basking in the luxurious feeling of being at a stunning museum with an even more stunning man, who has already made reservations to feed me fancy sandwiches.
If I wasn’t already falling for Anthony, I would be after today.
As things stand, I don’t know if my heart will ever be the same. As he guides me into the first period room—a stunning 16th-century bedroom—it clenches in my chest, making me dizzy with the romantic wonder of it all.
“Wow.” I pause beside the velvet rope at the edge of the room, my fingers curling deeper into the crook of Anthony’s arm as I take in the ornate paneling and silk wallpaper. Electric “candles” flicker from the fireplace mantle, catching the gilt details in the furnishings and making them glow. “This is incredible. I love it so much. You’re a genius.”
“Thanks.” He laughs before kissing my forehead with a sweetness that sends my poor heart into another round of clenching and aching. I’m caught somewhere between joy and a bittersweet longing for something I’ll never have, but so grateful to be here with him that I don’t mind the hint of melancholy.
It’s kind of beautiful, actually.
Bittersweet feelings remind you that life is fleeting and all beautiful things come to an end.
So, you have to relish them now, embracing the beauty with everything in you and holding on tight for as long as it lasts.
“The craftsmanship is incredible,” I murmur, leaning over the rope to get a better look at the carved legs of the card table set up in the center of the room. “Can you imagine waking up in a room like this every morning? Living in this kind of beauty? Do you think it would ever become ordinary?”
“Maybe to some people,” he says. “But not for me, I don’t think. It’s been decades since I was a kid sharing a cramped room with two of my cousins, and I still wake up feeling grateful for the beautiful place I call home.”
I glance up at him, falling a little more in love with him. “I like that about you.”
He shifts his focus to my face, his gaze softening. “I like you, too. A lot. Even if you weren’t a client, I would still want to be here, sharing this with you. You’re a good one, Maya Swallows.”
My throat tightens, touched by his words. “You, too.”
“Not as good as you.” His smile fades as he nods to his left, and there’s a hint of pain in his voice as he asks, “Should we move on? Lots of things to see before four o’clock.”
“Absolutely.” I wonder what he’s thinking that made him sound so sad, but I’m not quite brave enough to ask.
But maybe by tonight I will be…
Crazy as it is, I already feel closer to Anthony than any man I’ve dated, and the feeling only grows as we wander the museum, indulging our mutual love of beautiful, creative things.
We explore English drawing rooms with heavy draperies and delicate teacups, Dutch parlors filled with blue and white porcelain, and an American Federalist-style bedroom that reminds me of a scene from Little Women. Finally, we head up to the second floor to wander through a Zen garden and a replica of an ancient Japanese home that makes me reconsider my aversion to minimalism.
Yes, I love knickknacks and sculpture and pretty things to look at while I’m having my morning coffee, but there’s something to be said for a blissfully uncluttered space.
“I feel more enlightened just walking through there,” I whisper as we move through the rounded doorway into a hallway filled with Japanese art and sculpture.
“Me, too,” Anthony says. “And hungrier. Ready for tea?”
I exhale a happy sigh. “Yes, please. I hope they have Lapsang Souchong. It’s my favorite.”
“Mine, too,” he says, shooting me a sideways look. “But most people don’t like the smokiness.”
“Not me, I love it. The smokier the better.”
He nods, his eyes flashing the way they do when he’s having a brilliant idea. “I know where I’m going to take you tomorrow night. I’ll make reservations when we get home.”
“Where?” I ask.
“It’s a surprise,” he says, grinning smugly. “But you’re going to love it, no doubt in my mind.”
“Well, you’re batting a hundred so far.”
He arches a brow. “I hope you mean a thousand. A hundred wouldn’t be too great.”
I laugh as I confess, “Yes, a good batting number, whatever that is. I’m not a sports person. Can you tell?”
He puts an arm around me, hugging me against his side. “I had an inkling. But that’s fine by me. Artsy people are better than sporty people, anyway. I mean, I love catching a ball game or watching hockey with my cousins, but I never leave a sporting event feeling like I’ve grown as a person the way I do the opera or an afternoon here.”