Then, he grabs his light jacket from the back of the chair and walks toward the door.
I still stand there.
Heart racing.
Lips still tingling from a kiss that never happened.
And the worst part?
He might be right.
He’s not for me.
But when he looked at me like that?
It felt like magic.
And Adrianna told me to believe in magic.
Damn it. I shouldn’t have listened.
Chapter Seven
David
So what does an internationally famous DJ do when he decides to run away to a small New Jersey town?
Apparently?
Well, he buys real estate.
Because the nearest hotel looks like it rents rooms by the hour, and while I’ve stayed in worse places in my twenties, I’m not doing that now.
“You sure you want to buy something?” Nate asks, arms crossed, watching me like I just announced I’m opening a goat farm.
“I figure I might be here a couple months,” I shrug. “Might as well be comfortable.”
That’s the surface answer.
The truth?
Money doesn’t mean anything anymore.
Not really.
And comfort, for me, has always meant privacy.
Silence.
Control.
I hired a realtor the day after I got here.
Guy named Steven Brandon.
Crisp polo shirt, too-white smile, the kind of man who says investment opportunity like it’s foreplay.
He found me something on the edge of town.