Page 31 of His Curvy Temptation

That he’s aware of his own faults, of his own areas where he needs to work on things. That he continues to work on things, even though he’s accomplished so much in his life already.

He’s ambitious. Strong. Powerful.

It’s admirable. It’s who I’m striving to become, a business owner like him, running my own things, answering to nobody. No boss, nobody around to tell me what to do. Leading my own way through things, scary as that might be, has always been what I truly want out of life.

“Wow,” I whisper as we pull into the underground garage beneath his condo. Even the place where he parks his car is massive and luxurious, with warm lights lining the silver tiled walls.

We take the elevator up, and the doors open to a penthouse with views overlooking Central Park. A pool — a real pool — lines one wall, and the other is outfitted with a large sectional sofa facing the windows.

“It’s heated, if you’d like to get in,” Elijah says, nodding to the pool that I’m staring at.

“I didn’t bring a suit,” I laugh.

“That’s never stopped me,” he grins.

He strides to a drink cart on the other side of the room, pouring us both a glass of red wine.

“How long have you lived here?” I ask as he brings me the glass.

“Not long,” he replies. “I’m not sure I’m keeping it.”

“Not sure?” I gasp. “How could you sell a place like this?”

“I have a couple of others not far from here,” he says. “I own a lot of real estate. But lately I’ve been thinking about consolidating…finding something else, maybe something out of the city. The condos are nice, and have been strong investments…but nothing I own has ever felt like home to me. That’s why I keep buying and selling, I guess.”

“You’re searching for home,” I say softly.

He nods, then leads me to the couch where we take a seat.

“What does home feel like, to you?” I ask.

“That’s a deep question,” he says. He takes my ankles, picking my feet up and putting them in his lap. Before I can protest, he’s removing my heels and massaging my feet.

Thank god I have a fresh pedicure,I think, my cheeks turning pink. I lean my head back, unable to even think straight as he continues to knead my feet, the tension from wearing those high heels melting away.

“And here you thought you were the massage therapist,” he says with a grin.

“Clearly you can teach me a thing or two,” I agree. “But stop distracting me! I asked you what home feels like to you.”

He sighs.

“I guess home is…a feeling more than a place. At least, that’s what I’m figuring out. I’ve had so many places in the city. Had them renovated. Professionally decorated. Filled with photographs and art. Then emptied and sold, so I can try again in another place. It never works. I’ve realized it’s because you can’t force that feeling. You have to let it grow over time. You have to allow that feeling to happen.”

“I guess it’s hard to do that when you’re always getting up and moving on to the next place,” I say.

“And traveling,” he agrees. “And…living alone.”

I nod.

“I hate having roommates,” I say. “But I have to admit, it’s nice to have somebody there when I get home after a long day.”

“I wouldn’t know what that feels like,” he says. “Haven’t lived with anyone in a long, long time. Especially a woman.”

I look around the condo.

“This place is so huge, someone could be living with you and you wouldn’t even know it,” I tease. “Maybe you’ve got a squatter as a roommate!”

“Maybe,” he grins.

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