Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 97767 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 489(@200wpm)___ 391(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97767 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 489(@200wpm)___ 391(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
I feel like I’ve walked into a magazine spread.
So different from my modest abode.
Gio has a terrace.
An expansive one that wraps around his entire penthouse, dotted with potted plants and sleek lounging chairs that look like they belong in a luxury resort. There’s a fire pit on one side and a table with chairs on the other, perfectly set up for late-night dinners or early morning coffee.
It’s incredible.
I walk out and go to the railing, leaning to peer over the edge.
“Holy shit,” I mutter under my breath, gripping the railing a little tighter than necessary. My heart skips three beats.
We are so high up.
Gio steps up behind me, handing me a glass of wine. Before I can even thank him, his arms slide around my waist, pulling me back against him. His nose nuzzles into the crook of my neck—his favorite spot, apparently. And now?
My favorite spot, too.
I feel the warmth of his breath against my skin, and I have to fight the urge to melt completely.
“You live here and get to look at this every day?” I ask, my voice tinged with disbelief as I lift the glass to my lips, taking a small sip.
His grip on my waist tightens slightly, and I feel him smile against my neck.
“Every day.”
“That’s insane,” I murmur, shaking my head, hair whipping around from the wind. “I don’t think I’d ever leave if I were you.”
He chuckles softly, his chest rumbling against my back.
“You get used to it,” he says with a shrug, though there’s a softness in his tone that tells me he still appreciates it. But I’ve followed his career and understand enough to know his opportunities didn’t come easy; they came with hard work, lots of injuries, and dedication.
Gio Montagalo had nothing handed to him, not his glossy penthouse or professional hockey career.
I glance up at him, raising an eyebrow. “Do you, though?”
He meets my gaze, and for a moment, there’s something unspoken between us that makes my stomach flutter.
He is so hot.
“No,” he says as last. “I don’t think you ever really get used to it,” he admits, voice quieter now as he rests his chin on my shoulder. “Not completely. I mean, sometimes…” He trails off and he clears his throat. “Sometimes it feels like something is missing. Like—there’s no point in having all of this if you can’t share it with someone.”
I have no idea what to say to that honesty.
It’s so real.
For a moment, the world feels impossibly small—just me, Gio, and the view stretching out before us.
“Come on,” he says suddenly, pulling back and grabbing my hand. “Let’s go back inside. Too cold out here.”
Curiosity piqued, I allow him to lead me back into the penthouse, his hand warm and steady in mine. The lights are dimmed, casting a warm glow over the space, and I notice how large his hand is compared to mine; how rough and calloused it is as he guides me down a hallway.
“Where are we going?” I ask, my voice breaking the silence.
Because the bedroom would be great.
I’m past the point of pretending—or caring about my own make-believe dating rules so I can fake being a ‘Good Girl.’ I want more of what we had at the arena; more tension. More flirting. More touching.
I’m addicted to how much fun Gio is.
Le sigh…
The hallway opens into another room—this one darker, with floor-to-ceiling windows lining one side. A massive sectional couch dominates the center, piled high with plush throw pillows and blankets. They look so soft and beg to be touched.
“Okay, wow. This is spectacular,” I admit, my eyes scanning the room. “Is this your office?”
He walks to a sleek console table against the wall and picks up a small remote, pressing a button. Instantly, the far wall begins to move, a hidden panel sliding open to reveal a massive screen.
“Technically, yes. But no work gets done in here.” He tosses the remote to the couch. “I thought we could watch a movie.”
“You have a home theater.” I blink in disbelief. “Of course, you do.”
“Only for my favorite guests,” he teases, plopping down on the couch and patting the spot next to him.
Hesitating for a moment, I take in the cozy setup, imagining him here alone; the blankets draped across the back of the massive sectional, the soft lighting casting a warm glow, and the way the city skyline sparkles in the background through the windows.
It’s a space to be enjoyed with a partner.
“Come here,” he coaxes. “I don’t bite. Unless you want me to.”
I have no issues if he did.
Kicking off my heels, I join him on the couch, sinking into the plush cushions. He’s already reclined, one arm stretched across the back of the sectional like he owns the world—well, this world, at least.
In his free hand, he’s swirling a glass of wine, too, the deep red catching the soft light.