Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 104081 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 520(@200wpm)___ 416(@250wpm)___ 347(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 104081 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 520(@200wpm)___ 416(@250wpm)___ 347(@300wpm)
Maybe both.
His hazel eyes danced as they stared back at me, that scar lining his eyebrow somehow more pronounced when he wore nothing to distract from it.
I had to clamp my jaw shut to keep it from hanging open. The muscles of his abdomen and ribs stretched like art under the light coming from inside his condo. It cast half of him in a warm glow, and the other half in dark shadows from all the lines and cuts, his body carved in the way only an athlete’s can be.
Clearing my throat, I held my chin high and checked the time on my watch. “I apologize, your general manager told me seven AM sharp. I can wait downstairs while you get ready.”
“I believe he told you seven because that’s about thirty minutes after I usually wake up,” Vince said. “And this is supposed to be a month of my life, right? It doesn’t start when I get dressed. And good thing, since I like to be naked most of the time.”
Heat scorched my neck, but I held a blank expression and blinked at him. “Can you please not make this difficult?”
“Me?” He pressed a hand to his bare chest, and my eyes followed the movement before I flicked them back up to meet his gaze. “I’m an angel. It was you who insulted me the first night we met.”
“I imagine your ego is inflated enough to handle the blow.”
Vince smirked, his eyes trailing down the length of me. And just like that night at the gala, he took his time, not even a little shame finding him as he let his gaze linger on every inch of my skin. His Adam’s apple bobbed before he pushed the door open even farther, his eyes snapping up to meet mine.
“Come inside, Maven.”
It wasn’t a request, but a command — one I felt like a bolt of lightning cast down from Zeus himself. I wet my lips, resisting the urge to argue since I’d have to work with the asshole for the foreseeable future.
With a contained sigh, I slid past him, hugging the opposite edge of the door frame so I wouldn’t brush up against his half-naked body. He seemed to notice, too, because he wore that damn smirk again when the door was shut and I was inside his condo.
I, however, wasn’t smiling at all, not when I took what I could see of the expansive penthouse.
The architectural design was sleek and masculine, dark metals mixing with rich natural woods to create a space that felt as cozy as it did dangerous. I’d walked directly into the living area, which was decorated with expensive modern furniture and eclectic art that was tasteful and sparse.
The windows were the art I was most drawn to, though, reaching from the floor all the way to the ceiling and showcasing a bright orange glow slowly rising beyond the lights of downtown Tampa. The city was stirring to life, the darkness being overtaken by the warm sun that would bring another hot, humid October day.
It was silent, save for the soft sound of a beat-heavy R&B song that started with a deep voice singing melodically in English, but then slid into French and Arabic as the song progressed. The music set a distinct vibe as my eyes trailed the space, from the decorative fireplace that I was sure was never used for heat, to the spotless, sleek kitchen.
But my eyes didn’t linger much on the carefully decorated space. Instead, they snagged on the messiest corner in the entire condo.
It was the area designed to be used as a dining area, but instead, it was an explosion of pottery.
It was also the most warm and inviting space inside the otherwise cool and clean room.
An unfinished wood table was covered with clay, metal tools I didn’t know the name of, and half-finished bowls, vases, mugs, and more. Next to it sat a potter’s wheel, the pedal and edges of it covered in the same specks of clay that decorated the table. There was also an electric kiln, along with shelves and shelves of everything from supplies just waiting to be made into something to fully finished pieces of art.
“Go ahead,” Vince said, shaking me from my trance. “Take your best shot.”
I turned in a daze and realized my lips had curled into a soft smile from taking in the pottery corner. It slipped when I found Vince leaning a hip against the edge of his kitchen island, his eyes curious where they watched me as he sipped something hot from the mug in his hand.
A mug I had no doubt he had molded himself.
It was oddly shaped, but beautifully colored and glazed, and he’d made it. He’d created it from raw materials with hands that were usually wrapped around a stick, or punching an opponent in the nose.