Total pages in book: 55
Estimated words: 51919 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 260(@200wpm)___ 208(@250wpm)___ 173(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 51919 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 260(@200wpm)___ 208(@250wpm)___ 173(@300wpm)
My lips twitch. Normally, I have a really good poker face, but not tonight, apparently. I ignore Philippe and steer myself toward the insanely huge kitchen. “I’m sure I can find something to work with in your kitchen. You don’t have anything that’s going to kill you, so whatever I make should be fine.”
“You could always order in. Use the company card.”
I happen to have the card number memorized after all these years. I make a sound, low in my throat. “I don’t think we’d find a place we could mutually enjoy.”
“I’m sorry I don’t eat bread products.”
“Or fat. Or sugar.”
“Vietnamese? That’s always good. If you can’t find anything in the fridge, feel free.”
“I never thought of that. Granny does really like it…”
Philippe slides his shirt the rest of the way off and walks out of the room—the expensive fabric balled into his hand—whistling. I’ve never heard him whistle before. The hair at the back of my neck stands on end, and my nipples peak. Damn it. They’re hard enough to cut through my bra.
I stand right where I am, not moving. My breathing is also coming out totally wrong. Those abs are haunting me. I’m starving, but I can’t even think about looking in the fridge, raiding the cupboards, or calling anywhere to get something delivered. How would they even get through the gate? I don’t know the code.
It’s been—uh—awhile since…well…okay, it’s been a damn long time. Like, a year and a half since I went on a couple of dates and did—uh—more things. I never thought I was an overly sexual person. I mean, I went on dates and stuff, but I never met anyone I clicked with. A few times, a few bad experiences, and I just thought the problem was me. Maybe I was defunct in that particular department or something.
How is it possible that I’ve worked with Philippe for years and never once thought about what he’d be like in bed before now?
Or in the shower?
Yeah, or in the shower. Wet. Slick. Water beading over those carved abs and rolling down his smooth, soft skin. Moving lower.
Philippe is my boss. He’s not even nice. This is just a fake deal, and I’m not really his girlfriend. He’s freaking buying my company. I even insult him on a daily basis in my own head.
But…those abs. Water. Delicious. Abs.
My biological clock is about to spontaneously combust. Will someone throw water on me if I burn up on the spot? Or smother me with a towel like a grease fire?
I’m twenty-seven, and I’ve never had a good and proper kiss before. Is that pathetic? Yes, it’s decidedly pathetic. I bet Philippe knows how to kiss. I bet he’s a great kisser. As it is, I’ve been kissing his ass for an epic amount of time. Maybe it’s time he returned the favor.
Crap, no. It’s a terrible idea. Just. Terrible.
I know it’s bad and wrong, but suddenly, I’m moving, trying to trace the same steps Philippe just walked. I can’t hear the shower, and I don’t know which way he went as the house is so big. I start imagining myself walking around like a rat in a maze, all while trying to find my way around. He was just kidding about the shower, wasn’t he? Of course, he was. He doesn’t see me. He doesn’t see anyone but himself.
But seriously. Those. Abs.
I think those abs fried my brain and short-circuited some wiring everywhere else because I’m still searching for the bathroom. For the sound of the shower. My ears perk up down the hallway like a bloodhound, and I zone in on the door. There’s definitely a shower running in there.
The door’s locked. It’s locked, and it should be because I’m an actual real creep right now, and I’m seriously thinking about opening it.
But then the door magically opens right in front of me.
Philippe is standing there, not in the shower at all. But I can hear it running behind him, and he’s still wearing pants, no shirt. Wow, those abs! They’re taunting me, fudging with my brain and good judgment. I feel drunk—drunk on those abs and Philippe.
“I thought you might change your mind, so I warmed it up and decided to wait for a few minutes.”
“You’re so…”
“Yes?” His left brow, as black as the hair tumbling around his shoulders, arches. Waiting. He’s waiting for me to say something.
Our eyes lock, and his eyes are so beautiful. So grey. So blue. I can’t decide which. Why can’t they ever be one or the other? Who has grey eyes anyway? And why does he have to be so beautiful? Beautiful guys are always evil. I know that. I do. This is also fake. He’s my boss, and he’s kind of a jerk, so why does none of it matter right now?