Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 90736 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 454(@200wpm)___ 363(@250wpm)___ 302(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90736 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 454(@200wpm)___ 363(@250wpm)___ 302(@300wpm)
I clear my throat, glancing away.
He steps forward when it’s his turn, his deep voice confidently declaring, “I’ll take two chicken skewers and a cola. Please.”
Wait. Chicken skewers?
Chicken. As in: if it’s undercooked, you could die.
Dude, no.
Who in their right mind orders chicken off the street? Like, since when has that ever been a good idea?
Also me: ordered chicken skewers the last time I was here, and as it so happened, they were undercooked, and I was in my hotel room that night literally vomiting and sitting on the toilet at the time, if you catch my drift.
Was that TMI?
I hear his voice rumbling again about barbecue sauce on the side and asking for extra napkins.
I scoff.
Like extra napkins are going to help you later when you’re shitting yourself in a public toilet? Come on, dude, be real.
Ha!
“Yikesss,” I drawl. “Seriously, chicken?” I’m muttering under my breath, doing my civic duty as someone who has been personally victimized by raw chicken in this very park. “Um, hi. Excuse me. PSA: I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”
I’m speaking to his broad, sweaty back because he hasn’t turned to face me, careful not to let my eyes linger on his chest when he does.
Dang.
He’s pretty darn tall. Dark. Imposing.
“I’m sorry?” He’s staring down at me from several inches up, and I can’t tell if he’s amused or irritated—or both. “What did you just say to me?”
His low baritone rumbles.
His words? Polite yet sharp. Irritated but curious. It’s all very confusing to decipher, but then again, perhaps I should have kept my mouth shut.
Too late now. No take backs.
I clear my throat. “PSA, you know, a public service announcement? To, um, not eat the chicken.”
“But I’m sick and tired of hot dogs—and I know what a PSA is, but thanks.” His expression is blank, baseball cap pulled down over his brows, his pouty mouth set in a straight, serious line.
And speaking of his mouth, surrounding those perfect lips is the most glorious five-o’clock shadow I’ve ever seen in my whole darn life.
A pair of expensive designer sunglasses is clipped over the neckline of his white ringer T-shirt. It has a screen-printed image of a famous cartoon mouse on it, and it’s stretched across the front of his pecs, mostly distorted—that’s how tight it is.
On his bottom half? A pair of compression tights layered under black running shorts.
Bright-orange sneakers with blue laces complete the outfit.
He grabs the top of his foot and pulls it back, bending his knee and stretching his quad while he waits, as if he’s going to tear off into a run once he takes his lunch.
His thigh muscles contract, looking hard as a rock.
I peel my eyes off him with a sigh, since I’m not in New York to find a boyfriend—I’m here to work. Well, technically, I’m here for a presentation, to get advertisers on board for a dating app I created because obviously I’m trying to make it the most popular dating app in the world.
Have I mentioned that?
Yeah. I’m the creator and lead engineer for a dating app I’ve named Kissmet, and not to brag, but it’s going to be kind of a big deal.
Manifest.
“You’re sick of hot dogs?” How can that be possible? “Hot dogs are a classic. A New York staple.” I sound way too enthusiastic about this, but I cannot shut up. “Hot dogs are also sketch but get the job done,” I announce—as if I were an authority on meat; plus, I’m ordering one and so should everyone else.
“Tell me how you really feel. And say hot dog one more time.” He rolls his eyes. “Not that I asked.”
“Still wouldn’t do it. Wouldn’t order the chicken, I mean,” I babble, undeterred. His cocky ego doesn’t bother me; my father is ten times worse. “Go for something else.”
I pull a face, going so far as sticking the tip of my tongue out; it illustrates just how disgusting I think his choice of chicken is—because I’m classy like that, but lordy do I want to stare at him.
He’s seriously good looking—even if he is a bit too fit for my taste.
I prefer my men softer, not as hard, if that makes any sense? Someone who feels good during a cuddle session, not someone who feels like a brick wall, as I suspect this guy does.
“You might as well wear a sign that says ‘I have salmonella poisoning.’” Oh my God, why am I still talking? This dude does not want my opinion.
“I don’t have salmonella.” He snorts, slipping the sunglasses onto his face.
I tilt my chin up self-confidently. “You will.”
“Is salmonella even a thing anymore?” His tone is sarcastic, as if he thinks I’m making up facts.
Is he being serious—has he never watched the evening news? Does he not know that undercooked chicken can make you violently ill, and the chicken they serve here has been in the sun cooking all day—and not in a good way . . .