Total pages in book: 100
Estimated words: 94860 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 474(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94860 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 474(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
“You sure are chipper this morning.”
“It’s a great day.” He gives me a little wink, the flirt, and then kicks the dolly to balance it on its wheels. “You ready to move into my place?”
“I am.” I think. No use putting that last part out into the universe. It will only stir up trouble. Especially because I have no clue if we should be doing this, but I also have no doubt about this transition. I’ve never lived with a man before. Should I be worried about how this will affect us? I say, “I know you like your space and work a lot at night. I promise not to get in your way or be an imposition.” I hold the door open for him. He pulls the dolly over the threshold.
“You’d never be an imposition, Marlow.” He kisses my head and then passes in front of me. He can’t even restrain his smile, like it’s absolutely impossible for him. I roll my eyes before smiling as well.
A smile is the last thing I would think I’d be able to manage while hitting rock bottom, but he has a gift, and his happiness is contagious. How can I possibly be mad when he’s so happy to have me move in?
The bottom line—I can’t.
Even when I have so much to be nervous about regarding the uncertainty in my future, this man . . . this man has me sharing in his excitement.
“It’s only temporary, and then you’ll have your life back.”
He stops and looks back once he reaches the living room. “There’s no hurry. You can stay for as long as you’d like.”
A bashfulness sweeps through me, and my face flushes. I don’t think I could invent a more amazing man. “Thank you, Jackson. I appreciate that.” Shutting the door, I ask, “You don’t have to go to work?”
“I’ve cleared my schedule. This is more important. And,” he says, shrugging, “I couldn’t wait to get you over to my place.”
I stop when a crazy idea enters my head. “Wait, do you think you’re getting sex on tap or something?”
Chuckling, he replies, “No, but a man can dream.” He clicks his tongue. I have a feeling he’s seeing the upside to my predicament, and I can admit, I’m starting to see the same.
I roll my eyes, though, because I can’t make it that easy on him. But now I’m thinking about that aspect of the arrangement, too. This might be a better idea than I could have ever plotted on my own. Think of the time we’ll save by not having to travel back and forth to each other’s places. I mean, logistically speaking. “I only have a few boxes, so where do you think we should begin?”
“The bedroom.” Packing never sounded so sexy.
“If we start there, we might not get very far. Not that I’d be upset about that or anything.”
He rests his arms across the top of the dolly and laughs. “You don’t think you’re getting sex on tap, do you?”
“Touché, St. James.”
“Because you can. I’m happy to give you orgasms. Anytime. Day or night.”
He’s incorrigible. I laugh, still thinking about that tap, but then start to stare at him a little differently. The offer of orgasms is nice, but this is real. I’m about to move in with him. Instead of fear or worry, though, a thrill runs up my spine. “Good to know,” I mumble and then bite my bottom lip. I’m moving in with Jackson St. James.
This is a turn of events I never saw coming. And I’m not upset about it one bit.
With a wave of his arm in front of him, he says, “After you.”
But I still need to focus on my goals. The last thing I ever want to be is a burden. Cutting across the room, I start down the short hallway. “How are we going to do this all on our own?”
“We’re not,” he says, “I hired a crew. They’ll be here in two hours, so we better get to work.”
It helped that I’d been making some progress over the past few months by clearing out some of the clutter and crap, packing my most treasured possessions besides the ones I need to sell.
The movers blew through the door and made quick work of packing my two paintings that I’d purchased over the years from favorite up-and-coming artists I’d met to the drawings that date back to the renaissance. They were extra careful with my Tiffany vase that my mother gave me when I turned ten.
Holding it in my arms, I decide it’s probably best if I transport it.
“Hello?”
“In here,” I call when I hear Tealey walk through the door.
She finds me in the second bedroom, angling around the corner. “The place is almost empty.”
I close the flaps on a box. “Jackson took charge.”