Total pages in book: 71
Estimated words: 68249 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 341(@200wpm)___ 273(@250wpm)___ 227(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 68249 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 341(@200wpm)___ 273(@250wpm)___ 227(@300wpm)
“Only when you’re not checking me out, apparently.”
The smile grew more confident.
God, this was not a good idea. “Yeah, thank you for your concern,” I said, and cleared my throat. “But I’ve got to get going.” I moved to the left, ready to flee to those hills.
“Stop.” The word, said with so much power it actually reverberated off the cream wallpaper in the hall, halted me in my tracks. “Turn.”
I did as he told, like my brain had commanded it instead. What the hell was up with that?
Jax’s lips weren’t drawn into smile now. He was totally serious. “I don’t want you to go back there, Riley, but I don’t want you to be afraid. I’ll leave the front door of my apartment open.”
“So people can wander in anyway?” I asked.
He snorted a laugh. “So you feel safer.” He ruffled his hair. “This is rough. I’m not the guy who makes concessions for anyone.”
“Should I be honored?”
“No, comfortable. That’s the point,” he said, then sniffed. “My name’s Jax King, and I’m a businessman and investor.”
The name rang a distant bell. I’d been pretty stressed about my own issues lately, so I hadn’t paid much attention to anything else, least of all the news. Jax King? He’d wanted to speak to the owner of the studio—to me—and I’d put him off.
How could I not after he’d basically watched me living out my fantasies on the pole? It was the only time I got to do that. Time for myself. Time to enact what I imagined passion felt like, even love.
“I recognize the name,” I said.
“You got a phone?”
I lifted it from the pocket of the sweatpants I’d tugged on before leaving the studio. “Yeah.”
“Look it up while I make us dinner. That sound good? Shit, you can stay out here while I’m cooking.”
“You cook?” I asked.
“Pick the dish,” he replied. “Unless you’re a vegan or something. I don’t eat rabbit food.”
“Because that’s what vegans eat,” I muttered, but he had me smiling again. His cheesy jokes and one-liners endeared me to him. “I don’t want to intrude, Jax, just make whatever you’d planned on making.” Thankfully, my voice was strong again, and I’d lost the urge to tell him my life story in the span of a single sentence.
“Lasagna? Lamb casserole? Just like mamma used to make,” he said.
“Maybe your mamma,” I replied.
“No, definitely not mine.” He winked and sauntered inside, whistling under his breath, his hands in his pockets. It was a miracle those broad shoulders fit in the corridor beyond. Or rather, a miracle the massive ego fit.
I did as he’d suggested and looked him up.
Jasz Jing.
Miraculously, my phone’s autocorrect deciphered what I’d tried to type and brought up a list of results.
Jax King was a businessman and investor, all right. He’d bought up property across Miami and owned several… strip clubs! And restaurants. Ugh, no wonder he’d stared at me like that. He’d probably pictured me stripping.
Don’t be ridiculous.
I tucked the cell phone back into my pocket. Regardless, he didn’t appear to be an ax murderer, and just because he owned a strip club didn’t make him a bad person, did it?
Now wasn’t the time to dwell on morality. Now was the time to either go in or get out.
I squared my shoulders and walked into Jax’s apartment. I shut the door behind myself and the lock clicked, the pad outside giving a beep.
Well, if that wasn’t final, then I didn’t know what was. Decision made. And I’d been particularly indecisive of late. I—hated that about myself. Entrepreneurs were supposed to make fast decisions, to take risks.
Maybe this was my risk.
I walked down the hall, following the gentle hum of music from the kitchen and the clanks of pots and pans. It was a homely sound and one I hadn’t heard in years. I didn’t cook for myself usually. I’d eat at Veronica’s place or stay home with a microwave meal. I was usually too pooped after work and stressed to do anything about it, and it bothered me.
I entered the kitchen and stopped in front of the counter that banked the massive space. The room was done in silvers and whites, clean lines, with a massive fridge at one end and gas burners between two sets of granite-topped work surfaces.
“Are you a chef?” I asked, and finally looked at him.
Jax stood in front of a chopping board, his sleeves rolled up to the elbows, showing off sexy, strong forearms, tanned and corded with muscle. His blond hair and bright blue eyes shone beneath the lights set into the ceiling above.
He lifted his gaze to mine and pinned me to the floor. “No, unfortunately not. I’m just an enthusiast. It helps to like cooking and eating when you own restaurants.”
“How does that factor in with the strip clubs?” I asked and dragged over one of the bar stools lined up next to the counter. I sat down and propped my chin on my palms, studying his every movement, the ripple of his muscles, the biceps straining against his shirt.