Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 84676 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 423(@200wpm)___ 339(@250wpm)___ 282(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84676 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 423(@200wpm)___ 339(@250wpm)___ 282(@300wpm)
As I’m stirring the bechamel, he goes to the refrigerator and pulls out a block of cheese. “One thing we don’t have in England is American cheese, and the British people are grateful. It’s disgusting unless it’s on a burger.”
“You’ll get no arguments from me on that one. What have you got there?”
“Cornish cheddar.” He laughs, and I’m not sure why. “This is very on-brand, as you’d say.”
I narrow my eyes, glancing between my pan and him.
“I get it sent over from the UK.”
I start to laugh. “That’s actually hilarious and totally spoiled. But it’s not on-brand.”
He shreds the cheddar next to me where I’m stirring and it feels like we’ve known each other for ages. There’s no awkward silences or moments where I say the wrong thing—which is unusual.
“I’m afraid to ask,” he says, abandoning the pile of shredded cheese and pulling something out of an overhead cabinet. “But what exactly is my brand, according to you?”
I wince. I can’t be honest with him. I can’t say asshole. “You know, lots of money, fast car, ladies’ man.”
“That’s what you think of your boss?” He looks a little shocked, like he’s almost… hurt. It gives him a layer of vulnerability I’m not used to seeing, apart from that first night we met. I wonder if he even remembers that party. Or me. I’ve probably just melted into a thousand other encounters he’s had with random women at parties. To me, our conversation, our connection, our chemistry felt… different. He was joking around, talking about destiny, but part of me wanted to believe he was being genuine—that things could be different from how they actually are.
“We actually met before. Way back.”
“We did?” His eyes grow wide, and I can tell he’s concerned that something happened between us.
“Don’t worry. I haven’t seen you naked.”
He fixes me with a stare.
I glance at the pan. I’m starting to regret this little burst of bravery.
“When did we meet?” he asks. “At The Mayfair?”
I should fill him in. It’s not fair to tell him we’ve met and then not tell him the circumstances. It’s just embarrassing—and I don’t just mean about the costume. He was coming on to me, and then moved on to the next woman the second I was out of sight. It was a long time ago, but it still doesn’t make me feel good.
“No, not at The Mayfair,” I say. “It was a few years ago.”
I glance across at him to find him wearing his trademark smirk. “Are you going to tell me more?”
I shrug. “It doesn’t matter. It was fleeting.”
He chokes out a laugh. “Jules. What are you hiding? Is it really that bad?”
“I’ll tell you another time,” I say. I shouldn’t have said anything. The problem is, I need to remember that we’ve met before, because At Home Leo Hart seems chill and sweet, and the fact that he can find his way around the kitchen is low-key adorable. But he’s a womanizer. A player. I need to remember that.
He doesn’t speak. When I glance away from my pan, I realize he’s pouring alcohol into two shot glasses.
“If you’re not going to talk, we should have a toast,” he says. “To our engagement.” There’s no frustration in his voice. He accepts my lack of disclosure like it’s nothing. Maybe it’s not, to him.
He offers me a shot glass and our gazes lock. Heat trickles through me, long and languid, like a sensual slow dance.
I’m in trouble.
“On a school night?” I ask, and he sets down the glass he was offering me. I sound more scandalized than I feel. But I know I shouldn’t be drinking within a two-mile radius of this man. I don’t trust him and I don’t trust myself.
“It’s a shot of tequila. I’m not suggesting we down the bottle, hop into my very expensive sports car, and take on New York City nightlife. But if you would rather not, that’s totally fine. I’ll take both.”
The sauce is done. I turn to him.
“I’ll take a shot of tequila.” It might calm the nerves that have started to bubble under my skin.
He’s holding his shot, waiting for me. I pick up the one still on the counter.
I raise my glass. “To pretending to be Mrs. Hart.”
He groans. “Oh god, you wouldn’t change your name, would you?”
I blink, trying to process what he’s saying. “You wouldn’t want me to?”
“No! Keep your own bloody name. I don’t get the name-change thing. It’s so old-fashioned. Why should a woman change her name just because she’s getting married?”
I swear to god, I just felt a tug in my ovaries. “Oh, you’re a feminist now?”
He shrugs and clicks his glass to mine. “Why not?”
Being here in his apartment has shifted everything. He’s no longer my boss, who I roll my eyes at when he leaves the room. No, now he’s the Leo Hart who loves comic books and makes me laugh. He’s the guy who gave me his number who I was actually going to call. And here, now, standing with Leo in the kitchen, I understand why I’ve hated him so much since that night at the party.