Total pages in book: 72
Estimated words: 68524 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 343(@200wpm)___ 274(@250wpm)___ 228(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 68524 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 343(@200wpm)___ 274(@250wpm)___ 228(@300wpm)
I held up a mesh T-shirt and contemplated it for a minute. This was something I’d worn when I went clubbing in Boise, and one of the few things I owned that might be considered sexy. Miller and I weren’t on a date, though. And since I was stuck here all weekend, I really shouldn’t fling myself at him first thing. If he shot me down, this might become super awkward.
I tossed that shirt aside and settled on a long-sleeved T-shirt and a clean pair of jeans. Because I was an optimist, I also selected a sexy pair of briefs. Just in case.
I was about to climb out of the van when I realized I’d misplaced my toothbrush. That wasn’t good. I started digging through my bags again, to see if I could find it.
A few minutes later, Miller returned and asked me, “Is everything okay?” He was dressed in black and white Adidas slides, black gym shorts, and a loose-fitting white tank top, which put his muscular arms and shoulders on full display.
I stared at his biceps for a while, before remembering his question and blurting, “I lost my toothbrush.”
“I have extras. Come on in. I want to order dinner soon, because it’s going to take a while to get here on a Friday night.”
I grabbed my clothes and toiletry bag and shut off the battery-operated chandelier before climbing out of the van. Then I followed him through the door and up a narrow staircase, and found myself in the most pristine kitchen I’d ever seen.
It didn’t look like anyone had ever cooked a single thing in it. There were white cabinets and stainless steel appliances, and the countertops were made out of some sort of pretty, pale gray stone with swirls of white running through them. Those counters were totally empty, without so much as a coffee maker in sight. The only thing sitting out was a silver MacBook, which was on the kitchen island.
Miller went over to it and tapped a key as he asked, “Do you like Chinese food?”
“I love it. I used to get it when I went to Boise, because my town only had one restaurant. It was called The Chicken Bucket, which tells you everything you need to know.”
“Was it like KFC?”
“They wished.”
“Take a look at the menu, and order whatever you want.”
He moved over when I joined him in front of the laptop. I tucked my stuff under my arm and started scrolling through the massive menu, which must have had a hundred different dishes on it. “I have no idea what to get,” I admitted. “Could you please order something vegetarian for me?”
“No problem.” He quickly scrolled through the menu and clicked a few things before placing the order. “It’ll take about forty-five minutes, so I’ll show you where the shower is in the meantime.”
I started to circle around the kitchen island, but I turned back to Miller when he said, “Here, you dropped this.”
He was grinning as he held up my sheer, black thong. It felt like my face caught fire. I must have been crimson as I muttered, “Thanks,” and snatched the underwear from him.
“I can’t wear thongs,” he said, as he stepped around me and led the way out of the kitchen. “They feel like a permanent wedgie.”
The kitchen opened onto what was probably meant to be a den, but all it contained were empty built-in bookshelves and several stacks of cardboard boxes. I stopped walking and pointed at the boxes as I asked, “Are you moving in or out?”
“In. I bought this place eleven months ago.”
“Way to procrastinate.”
He shrugged. “The stuff in those boxes can wait.”
“Apparently. Where were you living before this?”
“With my ex, in a house he owned.”
“Who ended the relationship?”
A frown line appeared between his brows. “Next question.”
“Do you own this whole building?”
“No. There are two more units, one on each floor above this one. I own the ground floor, garage, and backyard.”
“Are you a trust fund kid or something? I’m asking because I know what apartments go for in this city, and it’s deeply horrifying.”
“I grew up in a middle class family. The only reason I could afford this is because I got lucky after college and was hired by a startup that really took off. Fortunately, my compensation package included stock options.”
I chuckled and muttered, “Compensation package.”
“Why is that funny?”
“I’ve just never heard anyone say something like that. Like hey, check out my compensation package.” He shot me a look but let it go without commenting, so I asked, “You’re what, then? A programmer?”
“I was, but I decided to change careers when I turned thirty. Call it a premature midlife crisis, I guess. Now I’m a concept artist.”
“I have no idea what that is, but it sounds rad.”
“I work for a company that makes video games,” he explained. “It’s my job to come up with the initial drawings of the characters, environments, and assets, under the guidance of the art director, and with input from our 3D modeling and animation teams. Everything needs to work together to create a certain aesthetic, and that sets the tone for the game as a whole.”