Total pages in book: 31
Estimated words: 30269 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 151(@200wpm)___ 121(@250wpm)___ 101(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 30269 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 151(@200wpm)___ 121(@250wpm)___ 101(@300wpm)
But I can’t bring myself to abandon him just yet.
The fear that drove me across the hall has cooled into an odd need to protect, as if leaving him now will bring his nightmare back. I ease the sheets loose from his legs and draw the blanket up to his shoulder, satisfied when he doesn’t rouse.
I came into his house expecting the stiff and formal man from my studio tonight.
I was wrong.
There’s more to Hugo Alexander than I first imagined.
9
Ispent half the night braced for another scream. Thankfully, it never came. Somewhere in the darkest hours, I fell into a dreamless sleep, though not long enough to erase the exhaustion.
Morning leaves me gritty-eyed and slow as I pad down the curved hallway in search of coffee. Hugo’s floor has the same bones as every other in this tower. Same circular layout and cold marble, same wall of windows staring out at the ocean.
By now, I could navigate any of these houses blindfolded, but something’s missing in the House of Aquarius, and it nags at me. Every object sits exactly where it belongs, the space spotless and sparse—the type of living quarters that confesses little about the man who resides here.
That changes when I reach the kitchen.
At the breakfast bar, Hugo sits hunched over a bowl of cereal in soft flannel pants and a white T-shirt. Daylight brings out the bronze highlights in his mussed hair, and I wonder if he rolled out of bed and went straight for the sugary cereal.
And he’s wearing glasses.
“Good morning, my queen,” he says without glancing up from the bowl, dead serious over the pink milk. A second bowl waits on the island next to the box advertising fun animal marshmallow shapes. I’m touched he left it out for me.
“Morning.” I take the box and pour.
He points toward the refrigerator. “Milk is in the fridge. Came fresh this morning.”
I fetch it and fill my bowl, and his eyes catch mine for a split second before sliding away to the window.
That’s all I get.
But in daylight, behind those understated wire frames, the green shines surreal, thick and lush as a forest buried in moss.
He has beautiful eyes.
I settle onto a stool, leaving the third standing between us. For someone who woke up screaming and thrashing around on the floor, Hugo seems oddly unbothered by it today.
“How did you sleep?” I ask, then take a bite so I’ll have time to process his answer.
“Like a rock.” He glances up, and a glint of wariness flickers behind his glasses. “Why?”
“No reason.” I wave my spoon. “I thought I heard something last night. Probably just the wind against the tower.”
“Yes, that’s probably what you heard.” His shoulders relax. “You got in late. Did you find inspiration in your studio?”
“It turned out to be a productive evening.” I think of the silk gown I started and the bridal silhouette I ended the night with. “I got to work on your foundation piece. The bodice is done, but the beadwork’s giving me trouble. I’m trying to achieve a raindrops-on-silk look.”
“Raindrops on silk,” he repeats, considering it. “That’s a good instinct. The buyers at last year’s event went for the more creative, flowing pieces.”
The observation surprises me. I expected polite interest, not actual knowledge.
“You pay attention to what sells?”
“It’s my foundation.” He taps the side of his bowl three times. “I pay attention to everything.”
As we finish our cereal in mutual silence, I find myself studying him. He seems fascinated by the cereal box, as if the nutritional facts are more riveting than a novel. How is it there’s no trace of the man who screamed himself out of bed to fight invisible demons on the floor?
He really doesn’t remember.
That, or he’s so practiced at swallowing his own horror that it’s gone by morning. Either way, he doesn’t know I sat on the edge of his bed last night, my hand on his shoulder until his breathing finally steadied.
The marshmallow shapes go soft in the milk, and I let them.
“You always eat this?” I tap the box. “Or is this a special occasion?”
“It’s a Tuesday.” He pushes his glasses up with a knuckle. “Special enough.” Then, he lowers his voice, taking on a conspiratorial cadence. “Don’t tell the foundation. They believe I survive on green smoothies and good intentions.”
A laugh slips out of me. “Well, they’re half right, at least. I promise, your secret’s safe with me.”
“I’ll hold you to that.”
The casualness is jarring.
Hugo lives in the little stuff, the mundane moments.
It almost makes the screaming man from last night seem like a false memory.
After we finish, he gathers our empty bowls and carries them to the sink, then nudges the faucet on with the back of his hand. Dishes clean and racked, he returns to the bar, fills two mugs, and aligns the handles just so before he slides one across to me.