Total pages in book: 60
Estimated words: 60711 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 304(@200wpm)___ 243(@250wpm)___ 202(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 60711 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 304(@200wpm)___ 243(@250wpm)___ 202(@300wpm)
Of course she had.
The ducks swarmed her immediately, a chaotic flotilla of green heads and orange bills, quacking their demands with the entitlement of creatures who’d learned that humans were soft touches. His throat tightened as he watched her laugh—he could see it even from this distance, the way her shoulders shook, the way she crouched down to offer crumbs to a smaller duck that kept getting pushed aside by its larger companions.
Something twisted in his chest.
Something he refused to name.
By three o’clock, she’d migrated to the playground area. Not to use the equipment—though he almost wished she would, just to see what she’d do—but to chat with the mothers who’d gathered there. They accepted her into their circle with an ease that spoke volumes, making room on their bench, laughing at something she said.
She talked with her hands, he noticed. Animated gestures that punctuated whatever story she was telling. The mothers leaned in, engaged, charmed.
Everyone she met seemed to end up charmed.
Everyone except him.
He was not charmed. He was frustrated. Obsessed. Driven slowly out of his mind by a woman who apparently found ducks and playground mothers more worthy of her attention than a billionaire who’d offered her everything she could possibly want.
Four o’clock came and went.
The mothers packed up their children and departed in a parade of minivans and SUVs. Andie waved goodbye to each of them, that same open friendliness she’d shown to Joyce’s staff, to the servers at the Four Seasons, to every single person she encountered except him.
With him, she was wary.
Nervous.
Aroused, yes—he’d felt the evidence of that last night, hot and slick against his fingers—but guarded in a way she wasn’t with anyone else.
Good.
She should be guarded.
He was not a safe man to want.
Five o’clock.
The December sun had begun its descent, painting the sky in shades of coral and gold. The park had emptied almost entirely, leaving only Andromeda and an elderly man walking a arthritic beagle along the far path.
She finally rose from her bench—a different bench now, closer to the playground, where she’d been sitting since her conversation with the mothers ended—and gathered her things.
Finally.
Finally, she was heading home. Finally, she would realize she needed to contact him. Finally—
She walked right past the park exit that led to Tranquil Acres.
What the hell?
Paul watched in disbelief as she continued down the main path, crossed the street at the corner, and headed toward the row of shops that lined the opposite block. A dry cleaner. A nail salon. And at the end, its windows glowing warm in the gathering dusk—
The Tranquil Acres Reading Hall.
A members-only facility, according to the brass plaque beside its door. The kind of private library that gated communities built to give their residents somewhere to feel cultured without having to mingle with the general public.
She went straight to the members-only library...and stayed there past sunset.
The December darkness came early, draping the streets in shadow by six o’clock. Christmas lights blinked to life along the storefronts—white lights on the dry cleaner, colored ones on the nail salon, an elaborate display of icicle lights dripping from the library’s eaves.
Inside those windows, he could see her moving between shelves. Trailing her fingers along spines. Pulling books out to examine them before sliding them back into place.
She looked like a child in a candy store.
She looked like someone who’d forgotten entirely that the outside world existed.
Damn her.
He had spent six hours following this girl like an obsessed fool. Six hours watching her do absolutely nothing of consequence. Six hours waiting for her to seek him out, to come to him, to prove that last night had meant something.
And she had spent those same six hours eating sandwiches and watching ducks and reading books as if he didn’t exist.
He was Paul Mitropoulos.
He did not chase.
He did not wait.
He did not spend entire days stalking women who clearly did not want to be stalked.
And yet here he was.
Doing all three.
Enough.
The word cracked through his mind like a whip.
He didn’t know what game she was playing. Didn’t know if this was strategy or stupidity or something else entirely. But he was done waiting to find out.
He got out of the car.
The air hit him like a slap—crisp and cold, carrying the scent of woodsmoke from somewhere nearby and the faint sweetness of the pine garlands wrapped around the library’s entrance columns. His breath misted white as he crossed the street, his expensive shoes clicking against pavement dusted with the first suggestion of frost.
The library doors opened with a soft chime.
Warmth enveloped him immediately, along with the particular smell of books—paper and binding glue and something older, mustier, like accumulated wisdom given scent. The interior was smaller than he’d expected, but beautifully appointed. Dark wood shelves stretched toward a vaulted ceiling. Reading nooks tucked into corners, each with its own leather armchair and brass lamp. A gas fireplace crackled softly against the far wall, casting dancing shadows across the oriental rugs.