Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 78313 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 392(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78313 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 392(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
She whirls around at my voice, and my head snaps back a little when I see her face-to-face.
Not because I know her but because I want to know her. For one bizarre-ass moment, the woman feels meant for me.
The kicker? She’s not even my type.
I like my women with flirty smiles, quick laughs, great bodies, and a solid understanding of what I’m looking for: a good time for one night only.
This woman . . . I’m not entirely sure she’d know a good time if it swatted her on the ass. Her blonde hair is parted down the middle, pulled back away from her good-girl features. She’s not particularly well endowed up top, and though the flare to her hips is worth a second look, her blouse and prim skirt are all business, her bra probably white and cotton. Or worse, beige and cotton. I won’t even get started on her purse, which is huge and brown and ugly.
Nothing about her, save the great legs, explains why I’m itching to unravel her inch by inch.
Except the glasses.
Yeah, it’s definitely the glasses that do it for me.
Sexy black frames with a vaguely naughty-librarian vibe that are pure fantasy material. They enhance the sexy punch of her wide blue gaze that’s thoroughly . . .
Suspicious.
She’s holding a file folder in one hand, and she taps the corner against the palm of her other, saying nothing as she gives me a once-over.
When her gaze slides back up to mine, I’m expecting the admiring smile I usually get from women, but she looks . . .
Bored?
Which leaves me feeling off-balance. So off-balance that instead of a smooth pickup line, I find myself nodding at the machine on the counter. “You need help with that?”
Her eyebrows lift. “Do I need help with what? Pushing buttons?”
You can push my buttons anytime.
Her eyes narrow, and I get the sense she’s read my unspoken words and found them lacking. I’m annoyed. And intrigued. It’s been far too long since I’ve had a challenge.
I ease a step closer to her, moving toward the espresso machine. She doesn’t get the least bit flustered by my proximity, so I lean against the machine, patting the top of it with my hand. “Just say the word. Happy to mansplain this to you, little lady,” I say with an exaggerated drawl.
She responds in kind, fluttering her eyelashes, the glasses making the gesture even more mocking. “Oh, could you?”
I smile, enjoying her more than I expected. “What are you drinking?”
“Coffee.”
I roll my eyes. “What kind?”
“Caffeinated,” she says, pulling out one of the company mugs, setting it beneath the spout, and punching the standard drip-coffee option.
“Boring,” I declare.
“Classic,” she counters.
I give her a slow smile. “I’m headed to Starbucks. Let me buy you a real drink.”
She lifts her mug. “I’m good with this.”
“You could be better with something else,” I say, lowering my voice.
She surprises me by laughing, and not a flirty, breathless laugh but an at me laugh. “Seriously? Do these lines usually work for you?”
“Honestly?” I give a small smile. “Yeah.”
“Well ”—she sips her coffee—“let me know when I’m supposed to fake the swoon.”
You wouldn’t be faking anything with me, sweetheart.
I reach out my right hand. “Ian Bradley.”
She ignores the hand and nods. “Nice to meet you.”
I lean forward and whisper, “This is the point where you give me your name.”
She leans forward and whispers back, “This is the point where you take the hint that I’m not interested in what you’re offering.”
Challenge accepted.
She starts to move around me, clearly planning to walk away, but I’m not about to let that happen. I step forward. “Have drinks with me.”
“No, thank you.” She sounds almost amused in her rejection.
“Why not?” I keep the question light, but truthfully? I want to know. It’s not often a woman tells me no, even less common that I care. But here I am fantasizing about her naked, and she could not look more disinterested if she tried.
“Oh, so many reasons,” she says with a sly smile, as she uses her folder to gesture at my neck. “That fresh hickey, for starters.”
I resist the urge to cover the mark with my hand. Damn the little vampire-inclined bartender from last night.
“Hmm,” I muse. “You sure it’s a hickey? Maybe it’s a bad reaction to whatever my dry cleaner did to this shirt.”
The mystery blonde lifts her cup of coffee. “Well now, that’s another reason. I don’t like a guy with a rash.”
I laugh, more intrigued than ever by her sharp tongue. “Who are you?”
“Someone you’re going to regret asking to drinks,” she says with a small I’ve got a secret smile.
“Why—”
“Ian.”
I turn toward the interruption, tamping down my annoyance when I see it’s my assistant, Kate, who looks . . .
Horrified.
I straighten and forget about Blondie for a moment. “Kate, what’s up?”