Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 97865 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 489(@200wpm)___ 391(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97865 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 489(@200wpm)___ 391(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
I grab my things from my desk, hoping to catch Kyle before he’s gone. Screw reality TV night. It’s definitely karaoke night somewhere. And there’s nothing like a few cocktails to lift the spirits and make you forget you’re tone-deaf.
I’m heading to the elevator when I look back at Theo’s office.
I’ve seen him upset, but this was different. Before I can talk myself out of it, I drop my things back on my desk and tiptoe through his office like some spy, looking around to make sure bad guys aren’t going to jump out and bust me. Not that I’m doing anything wrong. I’m his assistant, and this is work-related. I’m allowed to be by his desk.
I move a few pieces of paper around to tidy up, then go in for the kill. Reaching for the receiver, I pick it up and hit the button for the call log. The last number that pops up doesn’t have a name connected to it, but the area code is local. I press the arrow next to it, hoping to get more info, and hit the redial button. “No, no, no, no.” I panic as the line starts to ring. A man’s voice answers, and I slam the phone down. “Shit.”
You’d think the devil himself shot out of the phone the way I jump when it rings. “Welp, look at the time. Happy hour waits for no one.” I race out of his office, pretending my damn curiosity never got the best of me.
Fifty-seven karaoke songs and a shit ton of drinks later. . .
Singing off-tune about loving sex, drugs, and rock and roll, I trip up the stairs to my apartment and fall into the wall. Thank God for railings. I sing another off-beat lyric and make it to my door. Unlocking it, I stumble through and toss my keys in the general direction of my trusty thrifted table. My tiny apartment is filled with mismatched furniture, but it has character. My place isn’t in the best of neighborhoods, but my aunt assured me I was no less safe living in the city since crime was everywhere. Thanks for that, Aunt Rita. Totally reassured. Just little ol’ me living out my best life as a responsible human who takes care of herself—
“Shit,” I huff out, tripping over my kitchen rug.
I wobble to my fridge and grab a water bottle. “Thanks, fridge!” I snort, twirl like a ballerina toward the hallway, and stumble to my bedroom. I toss my water on the bed, unbuckle my pants, and climb out of them. But since I have no game, my foot gets stuck, I wobble backward, and my butt meets the floor with a drunken grunt.
“Damn skinny jeans,” I moan, ignoring the pain in my tush as I rip them off. While taking a quick timeout on the floor, I notice Theo’s scarf halfway under my bed. I snag it, the alcohol telling me to bring it to my nose and sniff. Sighing as I exhale, I toss it on my bed because it’s sleeping with me tonight. My blouse comes off next, and once I’m settled in a worn T-shirt, I climb into bed.
My mind goes to Theo, and I try to imagine him doing karaoke. It’s probably beneath him, and I bet he’s never even been to a dive bar. I chuckle, sliding my legs over the sheets. The image of him drinking draft beer has my stomach clenching in laughter.
Theo Monroe drinks bourbon and attends fancy soirées. His penthouse is probably all dark and moody like he is. I wonder what he would think of my place. Lying next to me, all sexy and muscular, wrapped up in my thrift store comforter. The thought causes my thighs to brush together, and I shamelessly place a pillow between them. “Oh, Theo, this is so inappropriate. You’re my boss,” I giggle and pretend it’s his thigh pressing against me. My fingers drift up my belly, and I softly squeeze my breast. “Oh, you like these?” My eyes close, and I visualize him above me. His fingers capture my nipple, and he pinches gently. I breathe deeply and reach into my nightstand drawer. “You don’t mind if we kick this party up on a notch, do ya?”
My hands wrap around my trusty vibrator when my phone buzzes. I debate letting it go to voicemail because I’m in a very important fantasy right now, but then I make the mistake of looking at the phone screen. Asshole Boss and the photo I secretly snapped of his ass light up my screen. Well, isn’t this perfect timing. Drunk me agrees. I grab my vibrator and snag my phone, one hand disappearing under my sheets as I bring the other to my ear.
“Mr. Monroe,” I purr into the phone.