Total pages in book: 50
Estimated words: 49189 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 246(@200wpm)___ 197(@250wpm)___ 164(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 49189 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 246(@200wpm)___ 197(@250wpm)___ 164(@300wpm)
Who knew a mile off the expressway and a short drive from the city center housed mansions like this?
It’s like I really have slipped through a time warp or something.
I didn’t think anyone would spend so much money on lawns and trees. Not to mention the mowing headache it must be.
And I’ll admit it. It’s intimidating.
Not the size or value of the place so much, but it makes me wonder if Michael’s as down to earth as I thought.
I mean, who lives like this? It’s a freaking museum, not a house.
“Home!” Michael says triumphantly, opening the heavy wooden front doors as he makes a sweeping motion with one of his equally huge and heavy hands.
But I only feel myself shrinking, even more, wincing when I notice his own shoulders sagging.
“You hate it,” he murmurs, looking pained but not offended.
Just a man calling it as he sees it, and he’s kinda on the right track.
“It’s really…big!” I hear myself say loudly, trying to sound convincing. Trying to sound impressed, but it’s no use.
I like Michael for who he is, not where he lives or how much money he has.
Not even what he looks like.
Okay, maybe that’s a bit of a stretch. I’m totally into how he looks and how he can do certain things with those huge hands and that equally huge tongue.
But when I see him, I don’t see all this. I see something else.
But I don’t think pretending I like his mansion when I don’t is what we’re about either.
His muffled laughter surprises me more than anything, and when I press him on it, he grabs me. Hugging me so tight, I feel the air as it’s squeezed from my lungs.
“Oh, Vanessa. I’m glad you hate it,” he sighs, hanging his thick arm over my shoulder as he walks us inside.
“Wait. What?” I ask, more confused than ever.
“I’m glad you hate it,” he says again, making my face redden.
“I never said I hate it,” I protest, “It’s just so…big.” But he wags a friendly finger at me, still smiling to himself.
He walks me across the black and white checkered tiles of the entrance hall, with huge doors on either side. The ones left open showing more of the same style. Big, expensive, and like something out of those designer homemaker magazines.
The kind of houses that are spectacular, but no one could actually seriously live there.
Or so I thought.
There’s a doorway through to a commercial-size kitchen, a modern-looking space with gleaming marble countertops and stainless steel everything.
“I hate it too,” Michael admits cheerfully.
“I bought it years ago when things started to get big with the business. I can’t remember what the accountants and lawyers said exactly, but it was either spend a ton of money on something big or spend a ton on tax. So here we are.”
I still feel confused, but I’m more relieved than anything.
I wonder if Michael bringing me here wasn’t a bit of a test to see if I really thought he was the kind of guy who gets off on ‘stuff.’
Like Jase does. He loves the first-class lifestyle, even though he doesn’t show it much around me.
On account of me being so poor, I guess.
But this place? This is Jase heaven, I can tell. Not Michael, though. Even though it does seem big enough for a man his size.
“I got it for Jase,” Michael continues, proving my intuition correct.
“Something for when he’s older, that was my thinking at the time. But I think I might’ve spoiled him because now he thinks any house has to be like this one. It’s the main reason he’ll never move out,” he laughs.
It’s clear to me now why Jase never asked me over, and as much as it’s interesting to see where and how he lives, I wonder again if I even really know my best friend as well as I thought I did.
My connection with Michael was instant, and everything we do and say so far has been pure synchronicity in so many ways.
Plus, Jase isn’t Michael’s biological son, so if ‘taste’ or ‘style’ is inherited, I’m glad to hear Michael’s wired slightly differently.
“So, what type of house do you like?” I ask him, still baffled why he’d even stay if he doesn’t like it.
I’m surprised too that the lifestyle I thought I could picture myself in suddenly looks a little bit intimidating.
“Bathroom’s through there if you need it,” Michael chimes in, moving his eyes to a thick, dark green door that I can see leads to one of God knows how many bathrooms in a place this size.
“I’m good now,” I tell him. “I just got a shock when Dad texted that he was at your office,” I admit.
It’s sweet of him to remember, let alone how neat it is we seem to know what the other’s thinking without saying a word.