Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 79755 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 399(@200wpm)___ 319(@250wpm)___ 266(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79755 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 399(@200wpm)___ 319(@250wpm)___ 266(@300wpm)
Tristan’s eyes went dark and he stood. “Let’s go. Pack up some things and let’s leave. I don’t believe in being paranoid.”
“What? I’m in my pajamas. I’m not going anywhere.”
He tucked his hand under my elbow and pulled me up and off the sofa. “Come and pack a bag or I’ll do it for you.”
I shrugged him off me. “You’re being paranoid. I probably just forgot to lock it.”
“If you believed that, you wouldn’t have mentioned it to me. You wouldn’t have even thought twice about it.”
He sounded like my father. He was always trying to convince me to take more security precautions. More than once, he’d encouraged me to use a chauffeur to get around town, or employ a bodyguard whenever I left the apartment. It was nonsensical, and I’d never agreed to any of it.
“You’re not in charge of me,” I said. “You can’t make me pack a suitcase.”
“No,” he said, “I can’t. But if you don’t, I will. And if I do that, I’ll probably put the wrong day-of-the-week underwear in or forget your . . . sheep pajamas. Pack a case and we can discuss it on the way.”
Day-of-the-week underwear? Did I really look like a woman who wore day-of-the-week underwear? I glanced down to see the faces of a dozen happy cows looking up at me. “On the way where?”
Before I knew it, we were in my bedroom. Without asking, he’d pulled my suitcase from the top of my wardrobe and was buried deep in his phone while I filled it. I needed to change. I grabbed some jeans and my favorite Snoopy sweatshirt and slipped into the bathroom.
Tristan looked at me and chuckled. “Love is a warm puppy? Really? You asked a complete stranger to marry you on Saturday night so you could get your hands on money. You can’t tell me you’re all warm puppies and chocolate-covered raisins inside.”
“I love Snoopy. He’s all I need.”
“Wrong. You also need a wedding band on your finger so you can get your hands on your trust fund.” Without waiting for a reply, he flipped over my suitcase, zipped it shut, and lifted it from the bed like it didn’t have half my possessions in it. He strode to the door and I scampered after him.
“I’m not ready. I have to turn the TV off, and make sure the oven’s off. I have to water my plants and—”
“You don’t have plants.”
“I’m being metaphorical. You can’t just bundle me out of the door. It feels like a kidnapping.”
“Well, go water your metaphorical plants and let’s get out of here.”
I quickly switched the TV off, picked up my phone, tablet, and bag and scanned my flat. I’d be back tomorrow. Wouldn’t I?
We rode the lift down to the lobby side by side in silence. I wanted to question him. If someone wanted to take something from my flat, they had the opportunity while I was out all day. If they wanted me, they would have waited until I was home. Why was he so sure I was in danger?
“Just trust me,” Tristan said.
“I didn’t say anything.”
He looked down at me and smirked. “You don’t have to. The way you pull your hair behind your left ear tells me you have things on your mind.” My hand dropped to my side. “If I’m being paranoid, great. You get a sleepover at mine and you go home when I’ve figured out what’s going on. If I’m not being paranoid. Well, great—you were safe at mine.”
“A sleepover? At your place? I’ll just go to a hotel.”
We stepped out of the lifts and headed outside.
“Nope. I want you where I can see you.”
This guy was exasperating. At the same time, there was something comforting about the feeling of having someone care. If his intentions were genuine. “I hope you have chocolate-covered raisins at your place.”
Tristan had parked outside. He opened the car door for me. “It can be arranged.”
I slid into the passenger seat and waited while Tristan put my case in the boot and got into the drivers’ seat, ready to take me to a deliciously hot, almost-perfect-stranger’s house to stay the night.
Being in Tristan’s house made me feel like a teenager who didn’t have her shit together. Whereas my flat was a hodgepodge of knickknacks, Christmas presents, and holiday souvenirs, Tristan’s place looked like it belonged to a grown-up. It was all dark grey, petrol blue, and forest green paints; wood-paneled rooms; carefully curated mid-century modern furniture; and art that looked particularly chosen for the space.
“Nice place.” I pulled open a kitchen drawer and peered inside. His cutlery was all beautifully arranged in an oak tray. I pulled open another one to find carefully pressed tea towels.
Everything was just perfect.
I looked up to find him watching me. “Like what you see?” he asked.