Total pages in book: 122
Estimated words: 116031 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 580(@200wpm)___ 464(@250wpm)___ 387(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 116031 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 580(@200wpm)___ 464(@250wpm)___ 387(@300wpm)
“If I were breaking in, I wouldn’t murder you.”
“Oh yeah? What would you do to me?”
I raise a finger in the air, laughter getting the better of me. “I think this is when I should say goodbye. I have a busy day ahead.”
He pops the door open. “That’s too bad. I was about to invite you in.” Shutting the door behind him, he crosses in front of the car and punches in a code on the keypad I’m parked next to.
I’m still trying to convince myself that us becoming friends is a nice consolation prize. Screw it. Rolling down the window, I say, “Funny enough, my schedule just cleared. Want a ride to your mansion’s front door?”
His laugh is bold and hearty as he stands in front of the gates as they open. “I think I can manage. I’ll see you up there.”
I watch him start up the edge of the driveway. It’s not particularly long compared to what I imagined, but the house does not disappoint. It’s smaller than I pictured in my head. I like that. A lot. Like he didn’t sell his soul to LA yet. I’d say give him time, but he’s had twelve years, and he still chose a modest house compared to Hollywood standards. I park and get out just as he walks up a short sidewalk to the front door.
The home is the opposite of modern on the outside. Greenery climbs the grayish bricks; French blue accents trim the roofline and highlight the front door. I assume he purchased it as is, but I’m still curious. “I love the house.”
“Thanks. I had nothing to do with it. It came this way.” He opens the door and waits for me to enter. “I knew it was the one when I saw it, though.”
“But you kept it this way, so some credit is due.” Across the living area, I’m hit by an incredible view of the city, causing my breath to catch. “Wow, that’s . . .” I keep walking as if drawn to the light. “That view is everything.”
“The house is unassuming in the front, which was what drew me to it. And then you walk in, and it’s updated and bright, has a pool, but that view.” He nods, staring through the glass. “That’s why I bought it.”
I look around the living room and back toward the kitchen. White walls surround serene furniture. A wooden coffee table accents a neutral beige couch, and a plush leather chair rests on the hardwood floor nearby. The sterile aesthetic feels more akin to the nursing home than a rock star’s crash pad. Sparse furniture and a painting on the wall don’t make it a home. I glance at him, not feeling like this place represents him at all.
“My bedroom is down the hall on the left if you’re taking notes.”
“Good to know.” I smirk, giving him the satisfaction. Tapping my temple, I reply, “It’s all up here for future reference.”
Grinning like he has a juicy secret, he asks, “What can I get you to drink?”
I like the time together without the pressures of trying to save a house or convincing people to help us. I still feel sick over losing the earnest money, but there’s relief found in the slowdown of knowing it’s over. The fight, the battle, the war was lost. “I’m good right now. I guess we should talk about how to proceed from here, though?”
“Want to sit outside or—?”
I wouldn’t mind staring at the view while I can. “We can go outside.”
He opens a massive sliding glass door and leaves it, so a breeze reaches me before I even step out. The pool is modern in design but isn’t huge. Perfect for a family or couple, or a single guy in his case, to cool off. I wonder how often he uses it.
Making myself at home on a lounge chair with a puffy black-and-white cushion, I lie back, close my eyes, and soak in the sunrays. “I’d spend all my time out here if I had this to come home to.”
“What would you do?”
“Read. Catch up on social media. Nap.” I don’t know why I make that sound like I’m breaking a rule, but a nap sounds indulgent to me most days.
“I don’t use it as much as I should. I come out more often at night and watch the lights as I hit my sticks against the cushion.” I watch him settle at the table nearby. He picks the far chair and faces me.
“You practice on your days off? Seems like you’d be a pro by now.” Just a little teasing before we delve deeper.
By the amusement on his face, he gets me. “Probably not considered practicing at this stage in my career, but I still hit when I’m not performing.” As if he’s in on a joke I’m not, his chuckle remains under his breath. “Believe it or not, it relaxes me.”