Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 72959 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 365(@200wpm)___ 292(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72959 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 365(@200wpm)___ 292(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
It’s all I can do to stop the impulse to touch her cheek and feel the warmth of her blush.
Her voice is a bit breathless when she speaks, as though she’s just as affected by our intense connection as I am. “If you prefer nonfiction, what made you pick up Addie LaRue?”
She’s not ready to let this go.
“You’ll have to tell me what you love about the book if you want to know the answer to that,” I taunt, delaying the moment when I’ll have to figure out a proper explanation for my reading choice.
She tries for an exasperated huff, but it sounds more like a breathy sigh. “Do I have to beg for more information?”
I release a low hum, and I don’t resist the urge to touch my forefingers to her wrist, testing her racing pulse with the lightest contact. “I don’t hear you begging yet.”
“Can I take your order?” The woman behind the counter has raised her voice pointedly. I wonder if it’s the first time she’s asked.
I’ve been so entranced by Abigail that I almost forgot where we are.
“I’ll have a scoop of chocolate and a scoop of peanut butter, please,” she requests, her cheeks still flushed as she answers the irked server. “With Reese’s Pieces.” She adds yet another sugary confection to the sweet treat.
My tongue already curls at the prospect of so much processed sugar, but I smile at the woman too. “I’ll have the same.”
Abigail shoots me a teasing glance. “I thought chocolate and peanut butter might be too American for your English sensibilities.”
I don’t bother to hold back the wolfish edge to my grin. “How else will I learn to fit in with the locals? Teach me your ways.”
She shakes her head at me. “Why do I get the feeling that you’re a difficult student?”
I fix my features in an expression of mock-disappointment. “I’ll have you know that I was head boy at Eton.”
Her brows lift. “Is that supposed to mean something in American English?”
She’s not impressed by my posh upbringing, and I’m starting to realize that I like this about her. There’s a reason I left all that bullshit behind and moved an ocean away from my family and their expectations of me.
I shrug. “No, it doesn’t mean anything, really. Other than the fact that I’m a model student.”
The server hands over our heaped scoops of ice cream, and I suppress a frown when I allow Abigail to pay for her own in change—likely from the meager tip jar at the café.
She blows out a soft sigh, and her expression drops to something more serious. Her eyes focus on her dessert, denying me the access to peer into her soul.
“I figured you must’ve been good at school to get accepted at Johns Hopkins.” Her tone is polite but cool.
Fuck. We’re going to talk about my job again.
“Are you going to tell me why my career bothers you so much?” I ask, keeping my own voice bland and nonconfrontational as I open the door for her.
She takes a moment to soak in the sunlight on her face before she replies. Her porcelain skin is luminous beneath the bright summer sun, practically glowing against the midnight black of her soft cotton shirt. Rich jewel tones would suit her complexion better, but she’s breathtaking even in these simple, understated clothes—alluring like my own personal sea nymph.
She keeps her gaze on her dessert rather than meeting my eye. “I would never change my appearance to be more pleasing to others.”
I study her lovely profile: the gentle slope of her nose, the sharpness of her cheekbone with that fascinating freckle, and her slightly stubborn chin that offsets the soft definition of her jawline. Her petal-soft lips are understated—I have plenty of patients who might ask for fillers with that mouth to keep up with current trends. But Abigail’s Cupid’s bow is sharply defined and symmetrical. Her lips are perfectly in balance with her large eyes and the delicate taper of her jaw.
“You value authenticity,” I surmise rather than extoling her beauty. I don’t want her to retreat into herself if I compliment her physical attributes when I sense that she’s talking about something much deeper.
Her gaze finally meets mine, as though she’s surprised at my incisive remark. “I don’t like fake people,” she admits.
“I meant what I said before,” I assert. “It’s just a job. I do it because I’m good at it.”
She presses her lips together, dissatisfied with my answer. “You don’t care at all about what you do? You must’ve studied very hard for something you’re not passionate about.”
“Are you passionate about being a barista?” I challenge, my own lips pursing in irritation at her imbalanced assessment.
She blinks. “No. But it’s how I pay my bills. It allows me the time and creative energy I need to paint.”