Total pages in book: 49
Estimated words: 47606 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 238(@200wpm)___ 190(@250wpm)___ 159(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 47606 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 238(@200wpm)___ 190(@250wpm)___ 159(@300wpm)
“Oh no, I’m just a lowly assistant. But my boss here, he’s in charge of the pro bono department at Burgess, Mayhew, and Somerset.”
“So you do what?” Beale asked Colton.
“We take on cases for free to serve justice.”
“For free? No shit?”
“No shit,” Colton said with a grin.
“Well, that’s all right,” Diaz told him.
After dinner—Colton treated all of us—we reached his place in Bucktown fairly quickly, turning onto the 1700 block of West Webster Avenue. I was impressed with Beale’s parallel parking prowess, and I appreciated both him and Diaz helping us carry again. They both liked the security of the video entry system—much safer for me.
“That place where you live is scary,” Diaz assured me. “This has the nice little lobby area here, but then to get upstairs to the fifth floor, you need a code or someone has to buzz you in from their phone.”
I squinted at him.
“You can’t be too careful.”
They were both really nice guys, and I appreciated all they’d done, but it was still amazing when they left. My social battery was running on fumes at that point, and when it was just me and Colton alone in his quiet, warm, two-bedroom, two-bathroom apartment, I nearly cried with relief.
“You’re okay,” he comforted me, taking his hat off me, giving my head a quick scratch, and then going to hang my clothes in the guest-room closet. It was the same size as the one in his room, both walk-ins with mahogany wood shelves.
He had chosen well for himself as apartments went. There were high ceilings, windows that went from the floor to the roof, an open floor plan, shiny new stainless-steel appliances, quartz countertops, and a ridiculous number of cabinets for storage. The bedrooms were both big, as were the bathrooms, he had a washer and dryer in his apartment, a heated spot in the garage that he was renting out at the moment, as he didn’t own a car himself, and most importantly, he could walk out his front door to the right, and in two blocks be at a grocery store, or take a left, and be at the Metro station. I was wildly jealous, but still, it wasn’t a house, and I really wanted one of those.
Once he reminded me that my folded clothes went in the beautiful antique armoire in my room, he went to take a shower. I spent time doing as he’d directed, and then unpacked and filled up the guest bathroom with a myriad of products. I made sure to move the hamper to a better spot as well.
I took a shower after that, changed into flannel pajama bottoms, a long-sleeved T-shirt—I couldn’t handle the buttons on the top, it was a sensory issue—and heavy socks. I put his cardigan sweater on over that. I had stolen it six months ago and forgot I didn’t want him to see I had it.
Once I was standing in his living room, I went to the gas fireplace, flipped it on, and that fast, there were flames making the room so very cozy. He didn’t like big overhead lights any more than I did, so I flipped off the track lights, and then walked around and turned on the individual lamps that were all on timers. Now that I was there, I would get everything synced up so that, much like the fireplace, one switch would take care of everything.
I had brought my lemon balm tea with me, having stocked his kitchen with all my favorites years ago, except for that one. Once I filled and plugged in his electric kettle—it was quieter for later in the evening—I went to find him.
He had apparently gotten out of the shower and passed out on his bed in a towel.
“Colt,” I called out to him.
Nothing.
Walking in, I went to the small chest of drawers across from the large one that held his clothes, and pulled out a quilt. I then returned to his bed, tugged on the towel until it came loose, and then quickly covered him up. And yes, I would have liked to look my fill of the miles of golden skin stretched over hard, chiseled muscle, run my fingers through the dirty-blond mane, trace over his eyebrows and eyelashes with my fingertips, touch his nose and mostly…kiss him. But I would never do anything without his permission. And how would that work? How could that ever be something I would ask for?
As much as Colton was my person, it had been nearly a decade since anyone had touched me, or I had touched anyone else. Lately, there had been flickerings of desire when I watched him move. I had trouble tearing my eyes away from his forearms when he leaned over me at my desk, sleeves rolled up, telling me something that fluttered right out of my brain like a butterfly. His hair on his shoulders, the way it curled, the different colors, and how soft it was when I tucked long pieces around his ears. I was mesmerized by the muscles in his back moving under his shirt when he carried things, lifted or stacked boxes, and the vintage denim stretched over his thighs… The other assistants were right. The man was beautifully and powerfully made, and the thought of being under him made it hard to breathe.