Total pages in book: 71
Estimated words: 69877 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 349(@200wpm)___ 280(@250wpm)___ 233(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 69877 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 349(@200wpm)___ 280(@250wpm)___ 233(@300wpm)
“Hi! Come on in,” a tall blonde says when we step into Archer’s kitchen. “You must be the neighbor and neighbor’s boyfriend. Welcome! I’m Alyssa.”
“Hi, I’m Miranda. This is Christian.”
Alyssa, as I had prepared for, is gorgeous. She’s also a bit older than I’d have thought. Older, I think, than Archer by a few years—though there’s nothing about her that comes across as old, just… interesting, as though she has a million stories to tell, and all of them would be as sparkly and light as she is.
Because damn it. She seems really likable.
“I’m so glad you could make it,” she says, ushering us further into the space. “Here! Champagne.”
She grabs two crystal flutes that must be rented, because I can’t imagine Archer owning anything so fussy, and points us toward an ice bucket where several champagne bottles are already open.
“That’s Jackson Burke,” Christian murmurs in my ear as he pours us each a glass. The name doesn’t mean anything to me, but his excitement is plain as he looks across the room to a tall, handsome man with his arm around a pretty blonde.
“Who?” I accept the champagne, trying not to think about how wrong it feels that it’s not a mason jar with Michter’s rye. Trying not to feel like all of these people in Archer’s place feels wrong.
“Former quarterback and the Super Bowl rings to prove he was a good one,” Alyssa explains, having overheard Christian’s and my conversation. “Client of mine.”
She grins at Christian. “You want an introduction?”
“Oh man.” Christian is a little starstruck, and it’s kind of adorable. “Hell yes.”
I touch his arm. “You go. I’m going to run to the restroom.”
Alyssa points. “First door on left.”
I suck in my cheeks to keep from saying that I know where the bathroom is. That I’ve been here before. Not often, but more often than she has, at least recently.
I shake my head to clear it. What is wrong with you, Miranda? The house isn’t yours. Neither is the man…
I don’t actually need to use the restroom. I do need just a moment to retreat and center myself. I’ve never enjoyed high-energy gatherings, and with this one coming on the heels of Christian’s holiday party a couple of days earlier, my supply of small talk topics is feeling a bit exhausted.
The bathroom is occupied when I get there, so I hover in the hallway, taking in the various art pieces. They’re different from the ones in Archer’s entryway. Sketches, mostly, but they’re all framed. To my untrained eye, it seems like an eclectic collection, no two pieces by the same artist, and not a single one signed by Archer himself.
I get to the end of the hallway, where, in my home, Lillian’s bedroom is located. It’s not the largest bedroom in the home, but she’d moved to it following her hip surgery a couple of years ago to minimize the use of stairs.
The equivalent door in Archer’s home is shut, and taped to it is a handwritten sign with the words Keep Out underlined for emphasis.
The note on the front door tonight, inviting people inside, had been written in a pretty feminine script, probably by Alyssa.
There is nothing pretty about this assertive, terse scrawl.
This is Archer’s studio.
“Well, well. The white whale,” I murmur, because anytime I’ve even looked at his house, he’s made a point of telling me that no one is allowed inside the studio. Ever.
I lift a hand to the doorknob, then swiftly snatch it back.
What am I doing?
I am a rule follower. I respect other people’s personal space.
I would never jeopardize Archer’s trust.
And yet…
The sudden urge to know a little bit more about the man feels impossible to resist.
I bite the corner of my lip, hesitating only a moment longer before glancing over my shoulder for witnesses, and then slip into the off-limits room.
Even if I didn’t know it was Archer’s studio, the smell would be a dead giveaway: paint mixed with Archer’s soap or cologne, or whatever makes him smell like… him.
For some reason I was picturing white. White walls, maybe a white painter’s tarp on the floor to catch any messes. But aside from a stack of white canvases stacked neatly in a corner, everything else is darkly masculine. The floors are dark hardwood. Clean, but not polished. There’s a large storage cabinet on the far wall, but the rest of the brick walls are covered, as I suppose one would expect, with art. Archer’s art.
This same room in Lillian’s should feel the same, and I suppose there are similarities, but somehow this feels fundamentally Archer.
The space is lit by a warm glow, and I smile to realize it’s the moon lamp I got him for Christmas. He’s moved it in for the party. Logically, I know it was to make more room on the roof for watching the fireworks at midnight, but I like the idea that he put it in here so nothing would happen to it.