Total pages in book: 153
Estimated words: 145123 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 726(@200wpm)___ 580(@250wpm)___ 484(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 145123 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 726(@200wpm)___ 580(@250wpm)___ 484(@300wpm)
This can be snappy and entertaining and full of banter, but this isn’t the opportunity to expose my thoughts and unearth my crush. This is a trade meal, and I should treat it as such. Doing so will probably make it that much easier to behave with a little bit of dignity and confidence, to be honest.
I don’t have to try to be sexy or flirty or attractive. I can be bookish and literature-focused. The characters can be the stars, just like I’m used to.
For the purposes of tonight, Clive Watts and River Rollins are just that—Clive and River, a fiction-based meandering of my creative mind, in no way rooted in reality.
They’re my Romeo and Juliet, and I’m their Shakespeare. And if I’m really lucky, they even understand that vague-as-shit analogy better than I do.
Before I know it, the cab pulls up in front of the restaurant without another word spoken between us. The inner trappings of my head have been far too distracting. Immediately, I wonder what on earth Chase has been thinking all this time with me sitting lost in my thoughts.
I don’t have time to wonder long, though, as Chase exits the cab and runs around the car to open my door for me rather than make me slide across the bench seat. He blocks the direct path to the street and hands me Benji’s leash when it gets stuck between the edge of the seat and the seat belt.
He’s every ounce of a gentleman, and I do my very best to ignore it.
“Thanks,” I say instead, in the interest of being distantly polite.
Professional. Dinner. Companion, I repeat to myself five times fast.
He’s my editor. I am a writer. And his interest in me is the kind that’s rooted entirely in my characters, their story, and the power of those both together to sell books off bookshelves in spectacular fashion.
I know his push for this book is there—in his belief for success in the market. Not in his connection to the character of Clive or the obvious likeness of River to me. This isn’t the live action of his crush. It’s mine. And he’s an innocent bystander to it all.
We move quickly off the street and into the crowded vestibule of the restaurant, only to be shuffled through the throng by Chase. He approaches the hostess while Benji and I hang back just a bit. She smiles in recognition and nods vigorously as he points back at us and asks for a table.
I still don’t know what his secret connection to this place is, but it’s good. That’s for sure.
I look around the rose-colored room, taking in the chandeliers and flower-covered center wall. It’s a beautiful place—every bit of the social media frenzy spot I’ve heard it is—and if the food is half as good, I have a feeling I’m in for one hell of a meal.
“Come on,” Chase says in my ear, surprising me with his proximity, thanks to my distracted survey of the dining room. “Our table’s ready. Right in the corner with a good spot for Benji to lie out of the way and everything.”
I shake my head. “I swear if I find out you’re a part of the Illuminati…”
“What?” His grin is addictive, and his eyes are light with humor. “What will you do?”
“Well…I guess, first, I’ll be impressed.”
Chase laughs, and the sound is every bit as pretty as our surroundings. “And after you’ve come to terms with the impressiveness of my Illuminati status?”
“Start fielding offers from you to see if it’s enough money to sell my soul,” I tell him. “I mean, I love writing, but I also love the idea of spending the rest of my days on a beach in the Bahamas where my only concern is if my piña colada needs a refill.”
“Of course.” His smile is a mix of secretive and jovial. It also gets punctuated by the kind of sexy wink I feel in my kneecaps. “But we should probably get to the table before I start throwing out numbers.”
Oh boy. Benji might be Superman tonight, but this man is my kryptonite.
I nod and precede him as he indicates I should, following the hostess with Benji close to my side through what feels like every inch of the dining room. People do a double take at Benji’s Superman costume, smiling when they realize what his vest says and how cute he looks in the red cape.
It’s a godsend, actually, all the attention that flocks to my best friend—because that means it’s not on me at all.
When our arrival at our table finally comes, I see why we did all the traipsing through God’s creation to get here. It’s an intimate booth in the back corner, with a small empty space for Benji to lie out of the way but close enough to do his job. I don’t know where they got it or how, but there’s a padded blanket on the floor waiting for him, almost as if they knew he was coming and wanted to make it as comfortable for him as possible.