Total pages in book: 30
Estimated words: 27641 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 138(@200wpm)___ 111(@250wpm)___ 92(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 27641 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 138(@200wpm)___ 111(@250wpm)___ 92(@300wpm)
"Bro, I have no clue what you're even talking about." Andrew's hands are up, and his voice is shaking, but my mysterious savior just bares his teeth and presses him harder into the bricks. "Fuck! Okay, okay, I'm sorry, I'm sorry!"
"She's under my protection," my dark-haired rescuer snarls, his gaze flickering to me. It's so intense, I swear I can feel it, and I know that look isn't imagined. It's for me.
The man in black lets go, and Andrew runs away, his footsteps echoing through the night.
We're alone. The air is heavy with the sound of my own harsh breathing, and the mysterious man stands there, staring at me. "Did he hurt you?"
"I-I'm okay."
"I shouldn't have left you alone," he mutters, moving closer, but I take a step back.
"Wait, who are you?"
He looks at me, his eyes so dark that they're almost black, and when he speaks, his voice is rough. "You know who I am." He reaches out, knuckles ghosting over my cheekbone before his hand drifts down to take mine. "Come with me. I've got something that will help calm you down."
"How do you know?" The question is dumb, and he smiles, and damn. That smile, with those sharp features, is so sexy.
"Trust me, I know." He turns and tugs on my hand, urging me to follow him. I should go home. I should be smart about this. I should call the cops and tell them everything.
But I don't. Instead, I let him lead me to his car—a sleek, expensive vehicle that looks brand new.
"Get in," he orders, and I do, because I'm not sure I have a choice.
A minute later, we're speeding away from the theater, and the entire ride, he doesn't say a word, although his fingers are clenched tightly around the steering wheel. To my surprise, the route we take is familiar, and before I know it, we're pulling into the parking lot of Sage and Salt. It's almost 1 AM, so of course the cafe is dark, but my stranger gets out and comes to help me out of the car before striding to the door confidently. He presses a long code into the keypad above the doorknob, and a second later, the door swings open.
"You have the code to the cafe?"
He pauses, his back to me. When he turns, the expression on his face is hard to read, but I think I can make out a hint of amusement.
"Yes. Don't ask any more questions, Alina. Let me take care of you."
How does he know my name? I shiver, the hairs on the back of my neck standing up. There's something in the way he says the words, so softly, almost reverently, that sends a flutter of heat to the pit of my belly. He walks to the back, and I follow him. Even though the lights are off, the street lamps outside cast enough light for me to see as I go.
At the back, in the little kitchen, he pulls out a stool from beneath the counter and motions for me to sit.
"I know this place well," he says, reaching into the cupboards and taking out a small teapot. "Do you like tea?"
"Um, I used to have it often, but I've been so busy with everything that I haven't had any in a while."
"Good. Then you can enjoy this one." He sounds pleased.
I watch in silence as he works, filling the little teapot with water and placing it on the burner, which he ignites with a quick twist of his wrist. It's all very methodical, and he works with a kind of silent focus that's mesmerizing. I try to imagine him doing something like this as a job, and the idea is amusing.
"What are you thinking about?" His voice makes me jump.
"You," I blurt, then immediately feel like an idiot. "I mean, I was just wondering what you do for work."
“I don’t work much anymore,” he says simply and offers no more information.
The pot starts to whistle, and he turns, snatching it from the stove and pouring it into a small ceramic mug. He sets it in front of me and places two things next to the cup—a tiny glass jar full of honey and a small spoon. "This will help."
I frown, reaching for the mug. The scent is floral, and the warmth seeping through the mug is nice. "What is it?"
"Chamomile. With honey."
After stirring some golden honey in, I raise the cup to my lips, inhaling before taking a tentative sip. The taste is sweet and delicate. "Thanks."
"Don't mention it." He stands there, watching me, and his intense stare makes me fidget.
This entire situation is so bizarre that it’s impossible for me to go with the flow anymore. "What's your name?"
"I'm not important. You are."
That doesn't answer my question, and the frustration building since this morning surges up, and I set the mug down with a clatter.