Total pages in book: 59
Estimated words: 56071 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 280(@200wpm)___ 224(@250wpm)___ 187(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 56071 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 280(@200wpm)___ 224(@250wpm)___ 187(@300wpm)
She swims to the edge of the pool, smiling up at me. “Hey,” she pants. “What are you doing down here? I said I’d be back up at one.”
“One o’clock has come and gone,” I tell her, holding open a towel for her. “It’s half past.”
“Shit!” she yells, now scrambling out of the pool and into the towel. “I lost track of time. I was thinking about the brownstone and how perfect it would be.”
I’m following after her now as she slips into her flipflops and heads toward the hallway. When we’re in the elevator, she’s dripping all over the floor, and an older woman looks on at her with disapproving eyes.
I technically did move into my family’s apartment, but I rarely spent any time there. When I wasn’t on the road for business, I wanted to be with Weaver. About three months after I’d relocated to New York, Weaver approached me in bed one morning, holding my bathrobe.
“It occurs to me,” she said, “that this bathrobe hasn’t left my apartment in months. Since it seems to live here with me, I wonder if you’d like to make it official and move in here too? It might make your bathrobe feel less lonely.”
And that was that. I gave up the apartment and moved in with Weaver. I’d offered for her to move into mine, which was three times the size and with a ritzier address, but she refused. For one, she said, she couldn’t afford it. A silly argument but I know not to argue with her about money. Mostly, though, she loves this building. The pool. The views. The German deli around the corner where she pretends to be some tech wizard. I still don’t understand that game entirely. Now I live here, and for the first time in my adult life, I feel like I have a real home.
Since so many of our business interests have offices in New York, my travel has decreased a bit. I still find myself flying about once a week, but now that I have someone to come home to, my trips are more efficient. And grandad has taken quite a liking to Weaver, her entrepreneurial spirit in particular, so he’s cut back on his most frivolous requests. Weaver’s started working for her uncle regularly, and now that she’s working for someone who respects her, she really enjoys the job. What she really loves is marketing for the bar, and there’s actually been some uptick in customers.
I sit on the couch in the living room, flipping through a magazine as Weaver runs around, a dizzying blur of a brush, hairdryer, and random clothes. We have an appointment with a realtor today. Actually, she has an appointment and wants me to join her. One night after her shift at her brother’s bar, she passed an old brownstone with a for sale sign. Just two blocks from the subway that led directly to midtown Manhattan and blocks from Prospect Park. She wasn’t thinking of buying it for us; Weaver was moving full steam ahead with her business plan. She was preapproved for a small business loan and this property, she thought, was perfect for her.
I go into the bedroom and watch her dress, and it never gets old watching her. I sit on the edge of the bed and stare at her naked reflection as she brushes her hair, wearing just her little black panties. I walk up behind her and grab her, nuzzling her neck and inhaling: citrus and chlorine.
“Maybe she can see us a little later,” I suggest. “Just tell her something important came up.” I take her free hand and bring it to my pants, pressing her hand against my stiffening cock. I know I can convince her if I try hard enough.
She meets me straight in the eyes in the mirror. “No,” she says firmly, ducking out from my hold. She slips a tee-shirt over her head and wiggles into her jeans. “This could be it, Chris. There will be plenty of time for playing later. Are you ready?”
Am I ready? I go to my bureau and open a drawer, taking out a clean sweater to throw on. Nestled there, between folded clothes, is a small velvet box I picked up at the jewelers the other day. A two carat round cut diamond engagement ring. I haven’t decided on the right time to propose because every detail must be perfect, but it’s coming. And I am ready.
I close the drawer and pull on my sweatshirt, then search for Weaver’s hand to leave. “You’re right,” I say. “Let’s go. There will be plenty of time later.” In fact, I think to myself, we have forever.