Total pages in book: 151
Estimated words: 145746 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 729(@200wpm)___ 583(@250wpm)___ 486(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 145746 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 729(@200wpm)___ 583(@250wpm)___ 486(@300wpm)
Casual and open.
That’s the agreement. Not feelings. Not jealousy or possessiveness. Not monogamy. None of that.
Lust. Fling. Bang and bounce.
Don’t forget that shit, Bellamy.
I open the door and Verity stands there, looking unsure of her welcome. Of me. Like maybe since we last saw each other, I’ve changed my mind. For some reason, that settles me because I haven’t changed my mind. And I’m glad to see her. Despite my reservations, I can do this again on my terms.
“Hi,” she says, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth.
“Hey.” I step back and gesture her inside. “Come on in.”
I hug her as soon as the door closes behind us. She stiffens, but then relaxes and winds her arms around my waist. Her warmth and softness and scent—all familiar. It feels good to hold her with the air clear. The past is behind us and we can’t go back, not even to what was good. This is something different, but I want it bad. I want her badly.
I pull back enough to peer down at her. Her curls are caught up in a knot and her makeup is minimal. There’s nothing provocative about the simple mauve dress she’s wearing that falls past her knees, but she could show up in a burlap sack and she’d still be sexy as hell to me.
She looks beyond me into the house. “Wow. Your place is beautiful.”
“Thanks.”
I glance around the foyer, trying to see through her eyes the mid-century modern house it’s taken years to restore. There’s a warm ambience created with natural textures and materials like the teak and bronze for the overhead light fixture and surrounding the fireplace. It’s a palette of subtle colors, like gunmetal gray, russet, and espresso. I walk ahead and lead her into the living room.
“I can’t take the credit. My designer did all the work. I can give you the full tour later if you want, but first are you hungry?”
She touches her stomach and grimaces sheepishly. “How’d you know?”
I chuckle and press my hand to her lower back, guiding her toward the kitchen. “Lucky guess.”
We walk deeper into the house with its open floor plan that flows easily between the kitchen and the living and dining rooms.
“You have great taste,” she says, running a hand over the basalt countertop and the teak cabinet. “Or your designer does.”
“Let’s call it a collaboration I basically only paid for.” I grin and open the refrigerator to browse an arrangement of neatly stacked containers. “We got a chicken and rice pilaf thing. There’s a steak thing and some salad with that. And a grilled swordfish thing.”
“I’ll take the chicken thing. Did you cook any of this?”
“Hell no.” I take out two containers. “I have somebody who cooks for me. My time is precious, Vee. Don’t you know I’m a famous musician now?”
She settles onto the stool and sets her elbows on the counter. “Oh, I’m very aware, Mr. EGOT.”
“Not yet.” I shrug and turn on the oven to preheat. “Got the Grammy and the Emmy. No Oscar or Tony yet. It’s harder than it looks, or more people would do it.”
“You’ll do it. Only a matter of time. Maybe Dessi will deliver your Oscar.”
“I’m not pressed. Something to drink?”
“Just water.”
I get a glass of water and pull down two plates to set on the counter. “We’re pretty early in the film for me to even be thinking about awards season. Let’s get it made first.”
“Have you written much for it? Besides what I’ve already heard, I mean.”
“Yeah. There’s a song called ‘Walk Away’ I wrote for the riviera scene when Dessi finds out Tilda got married.”
“What a way to get dumped. Poor Dessi opening that letter from Tilda and it was her wedding announcement?”
“Sorry for her.” I waggle my brows. “But makes a great story for us.”
“That it does,” she says, smiling ruefully. “How was Thanksgiving? Your family okay?”
“Yeah, I ate dinner with my mom and stepfather. My brother and sister always split their time between the parents, but they ate with us.”
“You didn’t see your father?”
“He dropped by. We chopped it up.” I don’t mention how much of our conversation we devoted to her. “Things are a little better than they were when I was at Finley, when everything he did was pretty fresh, but I’m not sure we’ll ever be close again.”
“It’s been hard to forgive him.” She states it, doesn’t ask.
I nod, pop the pan of food into the oven, and set the timer.
“My therapist draws a straight line from my parents’ failed marriage to my resistance to a committed relationship. He theorizes that I wanted that white-picket-fence fairy tale like I believed they had, and once I saw theirs crumble, I gave up on commitment altogether.”
“Have you given up on commitment?”
“I didn’t think I had, but he pointed to a clear lack of longevity in my relationships since, so…”