Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 73762 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 369(@200wpm)___ 295(@250wpm)___ 246(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73762 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 369(@200wpm)___ 295(@250wpm)___ 246(@300wpm)
Because of that, I’m relieved at my current appearance. The casual clothes feel like a shield of sorts—a guarantee that he won’t make his move and that I won’t be helpless to resist, as I generally am.
Matt gives my dog one last pet and stands. His six-foot-two frame doesn’t quite tower over my five-foot-seven self, but I have to look up, and that’s annoying.
Actually, everything about him is annoying.
See, adversaries aren’t supposed to look like him. And make no mistake, for all our ill-advised hookups in the past, Matt is an adversary. As such, it’d only be fair for him to have scars, a paunch, or at least an asymmetrical face.
He’s got none of the above. Simply and reluctantly put, men don’t come better-looking than Matt Cannon. He’s the epitome of a golden boy. Perfectly styled blond hair? Check. Mischievous blue eyes? Yup. Chiseled jaw? Uh-huh. Perfect body . . .
Yeah, you get the idea.
Also, I hate him.
I lean against my doorjamb, still blocking his entry. “Why are you here, and why in God’s name did my doorman let you up?”
Matt puts a hand to my waist as though it’s his right and nudges me aside so he can enter my apartment. As though that’s his right, too. Juno follows him in happily.
“You were in Baltimore last month,” he says.
I blink in confusion at the change of subject. “And?”
“You asked Kate to watch Juno, except she went out to Jersey to have brunch with her parents, and the train broke down. Your dog needed to go out, so . . . I came over. Juno and I hit it off, so I took over dog-sitting duties for the weekend.”
I stare at him, aghast. “Just like that. You were in my apartment. Watching my dog.”
He looks down at me. “Don’t be weird about it. I’ve been in your apartment before.”
“Yeah, for dinner parties. Under supervision. And when . . .”
His eyebrows lift. “Yes?”
I refuse to blush, and I refuse to answer. I don’t particularly care to think about the times my body’s desire for this man has overridden common sense, resulting in a hookup or two. Or twelve. And I definitely don’t talk about it.
His cocky wink tells me he knows exactly what I’m thinking, but for once, he doesn’t give me shit. Instead, he turns to survey my apartment.
“I’ve never mentioned this before, but I like your place. Juno and I made ourselves at home while I watched her.”
“Juno was home,” I point out. “You were an uninvited intruder.”
He ignores this. “Your home suits you.”
“I’m assuming there’s an insult in there somewhere?” I ask over my shoulder, heading back into the kitchen.
“Nope, I really do like it. It’s the only thing I like about you,” he says, following me.
I ignore the barb, since it’s sort of what we do. Plus . . . I like my place, too. It’s on the forty-second floor, right on Park Avenue, and the view alone is worth the astronomical rent.
I’m also pretty proud to say I’ve made a home out of what could have been a generic mausoleum. The leather sofa’s gray and warm and comfortable, with inviting red throw pillows. Instead of a coffee table, I’ve got an enormous ottoman, with a tray for cocktails and scented candles.
There’s a wine rack in one corner of the living room, a dog bed in the other, and the rest is all windows with a glorious view of the Empire State Building, the bright lights of downtown twinkling off in the distance.
The kitchen, too, is inviting, at least by Manhattan standards, since we New Yorkers aren’t exactly known for our cooking skills.
Juno dashes for her beloved, albeit slightly decrepit, squeaky sheep-shaped toy and takes to her dog bed, and I watch out of the corner of my eye as Matt comes to join me in the kitchen.
He’s wearing a suit, which isn’t all that surprising—he’s pretty much always wearing a suit. This one’s a dark gray, and the blue tie matches his eyes, though a medieval torture chamber wouldn’t get me to admit that I notice.
Out of habit, or instinct, or maybe just poor judgment, I measure the ingredients for two martinis, one for each of us. I’ve just added the vodka and vermouth to the shaker when Matt comes around the counter.
Wordlessly, he plucks the shaker out of my hands and takes over.
It’s a high-handed move, and completely like him. But whereas I’d normally protest on principle, I let him do it, sensing that he needs the control more than I do tonight.
Something’s on his mind—he wouldn’t be here otherwise—and based on what I saw in the WSJ yesterday, I’ve got a pretty good sense of what that something is.
Matt goes to my freezer and adds ice, as though it’s the most natural thing in the world for him to be in my kitchen, making the two of us cocktails.