Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 83858 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 419(@200wpm)___ 335(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83858 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 419(@200wpm)___ 335(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
God help me, I want my new boss. Even if it means losing my job, my dignity, my mind.
Especially if it means that.
I wake up tangled in the softest sheets I’ve ever touched, the kind that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe. Then I sit bolt upright. Oh shit, what time is it? Did I fall asleep before dinner? I must have been more tired than I realized.
Sure enough, the clock on the nightstand says it’s 5:52 a.m. I’ve been sleeping for twelve hours straight! Oh shit, oh shit! I grab my phone but of course, there’s no service. I try to call Simone, fingers numb with hope, but nothing’s changed.
Downstairs, the house is silent except for the deep, steady ticking of an old-school grandfather clock. I pad down the stairs, half-expecting Talon to be waiting in the kitchen, flexing his way through a hundred push-ups while reciting the opening lines of his next book. Instead, the place is empty and serene.
The kitchen is ridiculous: professional range, double fridge, walk-in pantry, butcher-block counters wiped down to surgical perfection. There’s even a coffee station, with beans from three continents and an espresso machine so fancy it could probably diagnose me with anxiety. On the butcher block, there’s a note in big, sharp block letters.
KAT— HELP YOURSELF TO ANYTHING. COFFEE’S BEST FRESH-GROUND. ~T
I make myself a cup, then wander through the house, mug clutched to my chest like a relic. The main room is built around a massive stone fireplace, its hearth wide enough to sit in. The ceiling soars overhead, rafters exposed and honey-colored. There are deep leather chairs, sheepskin throws, a table stacked with battered books and yellow legal pads covered in a madman’s handwriting. Above the mantle, there’s a black-and-white photo of a wolf, teeth bared, eyes knowing.
Everywhere I look, the place is a contradiction: old and new, savage and soft, the kind of home designed for a man who doesn’t give a fuck what anyone thinks, but who wants to be comfortable at the end of the day and has the means to pay for it. There are windows everywhere, floor to ceiling, with thick, oil-rubbed handles. Most of them look out at the woods, but one faces the driveway, as if keeping a lookout for invaders.
My phone still refuses to function. I try the WiFi next, using the password scrawled at the bottom of the note (“MementoMori2020”). It connects, but the browser redirects to a single, dead webpage—just the words “No Service” and an image of a closed fist.
It’s then I hear a door click. I spin, heart battering my ribs, and find Talon standing in the threshold of the stairs, sweatpants riding low, hair damp and wild. There’s a dusting of stubble on his jaw, and his chest is bare except for the band of tattooed birds in flight, black and bruised and glorious.
He takes me in, all at once. His gaze lingers on my coffee mug, my bare legs, the way my hair is already escaping its bun.
“Sleep okay?” he asks.
I nod, and bite my lip.
“I’m so sorry for conking out like that,” I say in a rush. “I guess I was more tired than I realized, and I must have started unpacking and lay down on the bed, and well, I guess I slept for twelve hours. I’m sorry.”
He half-smiles, something sly and lazy. “No, it’s fine. I figured you were snoozing away from the snores I heard.”
I blush fire red.
“Oh my god, I was snoring?”
He winks.
“Like a chainsaw.”
If it’s possible, I blush even brighter than before, but Talon merely smirks again.
“Hope the bed’s all right. It must be, seeing that you were so comfy.”
“It’s amazing,” I say, which is true, but I can’t help hearing how it sounds. “I mean—the bed is. The room. Everything.” Oh my god, I sound so stupid! And all of this after snoring up a storm too!
But Talon doesn’t seem to care. He comes closer, and I try not to notice how every part of him moves with dangerous confidence. He picks up a bag of beans, sniffs it, and grins. “You grind yet?”
I shake my head.
“No, I was just drinking what was in the percolator.”
His blue eyes gleam.
“Then let me show you.”
He takes the mug from my hand, his fingers brushing mine. He’s warm, and I’m instantly hotter than I have any right to be.
“Let me show you the trick,” he says. His body heat invades my space as he leans in, guiding my hands to the grinder, showing me how to set the dial “just shy of French press, but not too fine.” The closeness is nuclear. I breathe in the scent of him, sweat and soap and something else—maybe cedar, maybe the woods outside, maybe just pure, unfiltered testosterone.
We grind beans in silence, and then he makes me another cup, adding a swirl of cream that he stirs himself. The whole thing is a little too intimate for a man I met yesterday, but I don’t step back. In fact, I can’t think at all because Talon McKnight is pure sex, and I have no control over what’s happening.