Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 88057 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 440(@200wpm)___ 352(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88057 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 440(@200wpm)___ 352(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
Instead, the rest of the drive to his house passed with a mutual gripe fest about older siblings and their lack of faith. I sure knew plenty about that, and I wasn’t surprised that the conversation seemed to zap what little energy he had left. He was exhausted, so he didn’t need me hanging around, looking for dinner and reassurance that we truly were good.
“You look like you might fall asleep in your soup, boss.” My voice came out too heartily as I parked at his place. I worked the security code to the gate without issue. Duncan had sent one of the new guys around earlier in the day to ensure everything was still shipshape. Sure enough, my truck looked like I’d left it moments earlier rather than like a lifetime had passed since I’d seen it last. Hell, I wasn’t even sure I was the same guy, a thought that had my neck all hot and prickly. “You better get inside, get yourself and the dog something easy to eat, then hit the hay.”
“Yeah.” Ambrose exited the car, but he looked about as uncomfortable with parting as I was. For me, my discomfort stemmed from being unsure I liked how much I wanted to stay, but also feeling guilty for wanting to retreat to my own place to make sense of the complicated clusterfuck that was my emotions. And he sure didn’t need me unpacking all that on him right then.
“I promise I’ll be back tomorrow bright and early to collect the beast and drive you to the studio.” More of that too-bright voice, but it was the best I could manage. I grabbed my bag from the back and unloaded his and Hercules’s stuff as well.
“You don’t have to—”
“Yeah, I do.” I cut off his protest. “I might not officially be your bodyguard at the moment, but I also can’t shut off wanting to keep you safe. I need you safe, Ambrose.”
He met my gaze for several long seconds as I willed him to understand everything I couldn’t say. Finally, he nodded. “Well, all right, I’ll have coffee for you in the morning.”
“You better. You’ve gotten me hooked on the good stuff.” And him. I was definitely hooked on him, even more than his fancy coffee-making skills.
“Excellent.” He smiled, but it was a bit unsteady. I felt it too, the weird uncertainty of how to say goodbye. “I should let you go. Your apartment likely missed you.”
“Eh.” I shrugged. There wasn’t a ton there worth missing. It was simply a place to eat and sleep, nothing like the cabin or even Ambrose’s own cozy showplace of a home. If he asked me to stay, I happily would, but I didn’t want to offer in case he also needed the alone time to think. Maybe we were both jumbled-up messes.
“Well, goodnight.” He kissed my cheek. Alone time it was.
“Night.” I waited in my truck as he and Hercules went inside, waiting for the lights to come on, wanting to ensure there were no unexpected security concerns. Waiting for…
What? I wasn’t sure anymore. An offer to stay that wasn’t coming? A sign that he was as conflicted as I was over parting? Also not coming.
Finally, I turned on the truck and headed to the apartment that was most definitely not a home. One-bedroom unit on the third floor of a complex with dozens of identical units. Hell, half of them probably owned my same big-box store couch and assembly-required laminated bookcases. My phone was full of messages from Duncan and others, but I tossed it on the battered coffee table in favor of flopping on the couch, staring up at the ceiling.
This place was a far cry from Ambrose’s Runyon Canyon mansion, yet I couldn’t help but imagine Ambrose here. The cabin had shown he wasn’t a snob. He liked his creature comforts, sure, but he didn’t turn up his nose at humble surroundings or simple meals. What would he do if I invited him over some time? Would he belong here as well? Or were we truly from two different worlds?
Gazing up at the textured ceiling, I shut my eyes. “Honey, I’m home…”
Okay, that was way too cliché, but apparently, that was the sort of cheesy scenario my brain craved. I could all too easily picture cooking for him in my little galley kitchen. He’d bring a wine I couldn’t pronounce and the dog, and then we’d end up tangled on my couch watching some old mystery, debating whether the book was better.
I wanted that.
I wanted it so much it hurt, gut aching like I’d taken a fist, too sore and tight to even think about eating. Opening one eye, I glanced over at my phone. I could text him. See what he was eating. Ask if he missed me yet.