Total pages in book: 70
Estimated words: 66215 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 331(@200wpm)___ 265(@250wpm)___ 221(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 66215 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 331(@200wpm)___ 265(@250wpm)___ 221(@300wpm)
Taking his time, he hangs the jacket over a chairback at the table. He turns to me—slowly, with intent. I suck in a breath. A second passes as he watches me. Expectation is like a living organism in the air. It’s dark and thick, and it makes my breaths come quicker. It holds me hostage until he closes the distance with two slow strides and stops in front of me.
Taking my bag and tote, he dumps them on the sofa without breaking eye contact. It’s only when he moves around me to help me out of my jacket that I let out the breath I’ve been holding.
“Thanks,” I mumble as he folds my jacket and arranges it over the back of the sofa.
I suppress the urge to hug myself. Instead, I meet his gaze with braveness I don’t feel as he searches the depth of my eyes for answers when I don’t even know the questions. Mercifully releasing me from that stare, he goes to the kitchen and opens the mini fridge.
His tone is light, easing over the heaviness of the atmosphere. “Drink?”
He’s forcing that nonchalance for my benefit. It’s a gallant effort, but it doesn’t settle my nerves. When I shrug, he takes out two beers and twists off the caps.
His boots beat out a rhythm on the tiles, self-assured and unrushed, as he walks back to me. His lips quirk in the corner as he hands me a bottle. “It’s cold this time.”
My gaze slips to the label. Condensation beads over the glass. It’s not only cold, but also my favorite brand. Reflexively, I fold my fingers around the belly of the bottle. Holding my gaze, he tips back his beer and takes a sip. I can’t help but look at the way his throat moves as he swallows. The sight conjures the memory of his lips on the shell of my ear and the warmth of his breath as he’d pressed a promise to my skin.
Suppressing another shiver, I ask, “Why am I here?”
“Told you,” he says in a low voice. “I owe you a dinner.”
“Breakfast,” I correct. Dinners can be mistaken for being romantic.
His gaze darkens. “Whatever the lady wants. Dinner and breakfast then.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
His eyes crinkle in the corners, but he doesn’t challenge me, at least not with words.
I’ve never been nervous around men—I get on better with men than women in general—but I am around him. He heightens my senses, and I imagine it’s how it is before you die. Brighter, louder, clearer, sharper.
I shake off the thought and take a sip of my beer.
“You were out today,” he says, lowering his head to study me. “What did you do? Something fun?”
How long has he been waiting for me? “How did you get inside my apartment?”
Leaving his bottle on the coffee table, he takes my hand and leads me to the kitchen where he pushes me down onto a stool at the center counter. “Wasn’t that hard. If you know the key number, you can buy one at any hardware store.” He takes onions, carrots, and celery from a shopping bag and places the vegetables on the counter. “We’ll have to do something about your sadly lacking security.”
I tighten my fingers around my beer. “We?”
“You need a double cylinder deadbolt and a peephole, plus an alarm and security gate,” he says, grabbing two pans from the hooks above the stove.
“I know that.”
He turns on two plates. Something dark slips into his tone, something angry. “Then why do you risk your safety?”
“I’ll do it when I can afford to,” I say scathingly, not liking to flaunt my shortcomings, at least not in front of him.
“Consider it done,” he says without as much as a blink.
“What?” I stare at the the long hair that brushes one side of his jaw and the way his bicep flexes when he places the pans on the stove. “Why?”
Leaning his palms on the counter, he gives me a sidelong look. “You shouldn’t fuck with your safety.”
Ironic, coming from him. “Shouldn’t you be on the run instead of worrying about the non-existing deadbolt on my door?”
He smiles. “Soon enough.”
The gesture is beguiling. I blow out a breath when he busies himself with dicing onions.
“Why do you do it?” I ask to his back.
He adds olive oil to the pan. “Do what?” The onions he throws into the pan sizzle.
“The heists.”
He glances over his shoulder at me. “You Googled me.”
I pick at the label on my bottle. “I read the news.”
His cocky grin says he doesn’t believe me. “Admit it,” he says as he takes a bag of frozen potatoes from the freezer compartment. “You researched me.”
Obstinately, I keep quiet.
“It’s no big deal.” He tears the bag open and dumps the contents into the second pan. “I did the same.”