Total pages in book: 115
Estimated words: 109608 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 548(@200wpm)___ 438(@250wpm)___ 365(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 109608 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 548(@200wpm)___ 438(@250wpm)___ 365(@300wpm)
“Hello? Loch?” I walk in, but he’s nowhere to be found either. The spacious office has a sitting area, a large desk, and a captain’s chair-type wingback. I feel a little weird being in here without him. What if someone finds me here?
I close the door, then set the briefcase on his desk. He did say he had meetings all day. I’m sure he’s stuck in a conference room in another part of the office. Dragging my finger across the top of the wood and metal desk, I walk to the windows and peer out. Another incredible view. Probably one he doesn’t get to enjoy, either.
My head spins.
I step back and sit in the closest chair with my hand cupping my head. Should I be concerned? Is this normal for having a concussion?
I feel nauseous.
Desperate, I look around, not feeling able to stand just yet. Spying a door that blends in with the wall, I know there’s a strong chance it’s a closet, but what if it’s a private bathroom? Wouldn’t a big-time attorney in Manhattan have one of those?
I carefully lift from the chair and make my way over to the wall. Pushing on it, I hear a click, and it releases. Score!
When I open it, steam billows toward the opening and engulfs me. I hear faint humming, and when my vision clears, I see Loch in the shower. Completely naked.
I cover my mouth, afraid to make a sound or move an inch, yet it doesn’t once occur to me to look away. He’s tilted his head back, eyes closed, as the water rains on his chest and travels down his body. Like my gaze.
The Greek gods hold nothing on this man—sculpted from steel muscles that flex when he turns, letting the water pummel his shoulders to that glorious indention in the sides of his ass to that cut V that digs deep into his sides and veers down in the front to his— “Tuesday?”
Our eyes meet through the glass just as a wave of nausea rolls through me. Oh no!
I run for the toilet, dropping to my knees, and lift the lid just in time.
Behind me, the water cuts off, and the faint sound of his voice reaches me through the convulsions. Tears fill my eyes while my body revolts and my head pounds.
He scoops my hair up off my neck with one hand while his other strokes my back. “Try to breathe.” His voice soothes as he continues, “Breathe through it.”
I focus on the direction, closing my eyes and slowing my breath until my panic subsides and my stomach settles. Mortification might get the best of me when I have to look into his eyes again, but I can only tackle one thing at a time. Right now, the vomiting takes precedence.
He says, “Breathe in and slowly release.”
I grab toilet paper and wipe my mouth. The heat of embarrassment floods my face, causing my head to pound again. But I feel steady enough to look behind me.
Oh God!
My breathing picks up again when I see him in nothing but a towel wrapped around his lower half. I turn away just as quickly and use my hand as a shield.
He says, “I think it’s a little late for that, don’t you think?”
I toss the paper in the toilet and flush. Turning back, still feeling my face on fire, I sigh. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know it was a bathroom.”
“What were you looking for?”
“A bathroom, just not one you were showering in,” I reply, giggling a little. I finally meet his gaze again. “I felt ill waiting in your office.”
“So it’s not the sight of me that made you sick?”
“Oh God no. You’re incredible.” As if throwing up wasn’t bad enough, now I’m vomiting my words as well? Raising my hand, I say, “Ignore me. I’m not thinking clearly.”
“So you don’t think I’m incredible?”
I whip back to catch his eyes set on me already. “No, that’s not what I mean at all—”
“I know. I’m teasing, Tuesday.” He’s teasing? Loch Westcott bantering with me? That has to be a feat I’ve accomplished. Too bad I don’t feel so great, or I’d be celebrating.
I push off him—his wet, hard, and hot body—instead, this just feels like a punishment for me. “Listen, you, don’t give me a hard time.”
“You ruin all the fun.”
Standing up, he tightens the towel to my disappointment and then offers me a hand. When I slip mine into his, he pulls me up carefully until water droplets soak into my blouse. “You’re getting me wet.”
“About time.”
“Loch,” I say, my eyes widening on his face because I’m trying so desperately hard not to lower them to ogle his body again. “What the heck has gotten into you?”
“You’re right.” He runs his hand through his hair and waggles it, sending drops flying, including spackling my shirt. Soon I’ll look like I’ve entered a wet T-shirt contest.