Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 122097 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 610(@200wpm)___ 488(@250wpm)___ 407(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 122097 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 610(@200wpm)___ 488(@250wpm)___ 407(@300wpm)
“That’s three, you know.”
“What?” I look at him over my shoulder. He’s smirking at me. And my God, not only do I feel like I’m in high school again, but this look he’s shootin’ me reminds me of the boy I once knew.
“The number of times you’ve invited me up to see your bedroom.”
We’ve reached the stairs and now we’re climbing. “You’re keeping track, are you?”
“Mmm.”
I love my bedroom. I designed every corner, every windowsill, every door, every floorboard—the paint, the curtains, the rugs, the furniture. And it’s not retro, either. The color scheme from downstairs has been modified.
As we come around the landing and continue to climb, I take in a breath. Wondering what he will think of it. Wondering if he will even care.
But then there we are, at the top of the stairs. “Wow, Low. This is nice.” I step aside so he can walk past me and I can enjoy the way his gaze wanders around, taking it all in.
The walls have been covered in reclaimed shiplap I found in Ohio and painted just the lightest shade of sage green—real name cucumber. And the floorboards and trim are painted an antique white. The floors up here are even more spectacular than the ones downstairs. The wood planks are wide and dark, with many imperfections that just add to the character. The structural beams above us are the same color. I got those out of a barn on a trip to eastern Pennsylvania. The entire attic was removed from the house to expose those beams and they really look nice contrasted against the cucumber shiplap ceiling.
Most of the accents are the same antique white—the sheer curtains over the brand-new floor-to-ceiling windows, the giant rag rug under the bed, and the cushions on the window seats in the dormers. But the other accents are a pewter gray, like the bed, which is king-size and the mattress is nearly four feet off the ground the way antique beds often are, not because I particularly wanted a bed that big, but because I found a hundred-and-fifty-year-old iron bed frame in Kentucky that I just had to have. I stripped every bit of paint off that thing and then brought the old iron back to life with a wire wheel on my drill, polishing it up until the entire thing looked just like those pewter mugs they serve beer in at the Pineapple Pub in historic Bishop. It took almost a year to finish that bed. But it was worth it.
“I don’t know why, but I pictured a canopy bed.” Collin looks over his shoulder at me, winking.
“Because I had one of those as a girl?”
“Lots of memories up in that room of yours.” He grins, pausing for a moment, maybe to relive a particularly favorite memory. We never did have sex in my girlhood room or nothing like that, but we did spend time in there, just hanging out, listening to vinyl records and doing homework. “But this really is special, Low.” I like the way he calls me Low. He turns to face me. “It feels like home.”
Then he’s coming towards me. And a moment later, his hands are on my hips and he’s kissing me. His fingertips bunching up the fabric of my dress until he’s got it up to my waist. I hold in a breath and look right into his mesmerizing eyes, like I’m caught in a trap, and then the dress is coming over my head and the next thing I know, I’m standing there in my stockings, and garters, and underwear.
Collin lets out a long breath. “I could stand here and look at you for years, Lowyn McBride, and still never see all the ways in which you are perfect.”
My God, this man and his words. “Well,” I say, “I could say the same.” And then I’ve got my fingertips underneath his suspenders and I’m sliding them down his arms. He holds his breath, I think, his head slightly tipped down as he watches me do this. Then he looks up, smile gone. Hunger in his eyes.
I stare at him, almost unable to breathe, as I take my fingertips to his shirt buttons. And one by one, I undo them and spread the shirt wide open. He’s wearing an undershirt underneath, as one does when they are in costume. But I find that this is a detail I like. One that is missed on modern men.
I slide the shirt down his arms and let it drop to the floor. “I like this look.”
“The sleeveless undershirt?” Collin chuckles. “I had forgotten how many fuckin’ layers of clothing the costumes have.”
“But it’s nice though, right? I mean, if I wasn’t in costume, I would not be wearing stockings and garters, would I?”
“You’ve got a point there, peaches.”