Total pages in book: 70
Estimated words: 68309 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 342(@200wpm)___ 273(@250wpm)___ 228(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 68309 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 342(@200wpm)___ 273(@250wpm)___ 228(@300wpm)
“Oh, yeah? Which one?”
“Chicago. What are you doing this weekend?”
“The usual ... ” He keeps his answer vague as well, though I’d guess his intentions are different than mine. I think he wants me to wonder, to assume the worst, to imagine him painting the town and hooking up with beautiful Phoenician women. “Actually, I was thinking of laying low. Cainan’s planning this insane Vegas weekend next month.”
“Is he now?” There’s a twinge in my chest, though I’m not sure what it means. Jealousy, perhaps? Though I have no right being jealous of Grant chatting with his best friend.
“Yeah. Says he wants to cheer me up.”
“I’m sure the two of you will have a lovely time together.”
He chuckles. “Oh, there’ll be eight of us total. Going to rent out this suite at the Waldorf Astoria. Hit up a bunch of clubs. Get crazy.”
Grant is definitely trying to make me jealous. Only instead of picturing Grant covered in stunning, gorgeous, half-naked women … I’m picturing Cainan.
My middle turns tense, and my skin is blanketed in a hot flash of displaced jealousy.
“Sounds like a good time,” I say, forcing an upbeat tone.
“Hey, I have a work trip coming up in a few weeks,” he changes the subject. “I thought maybe … if you were cool with it … I could stay with you?”
My jaw turns slack as I search for the right words. Cainan’s words from the other week, about not sugarcoating, come to mind. “Grant, I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
The old me would’ve fed him a bunch of excuses, would’ve told him it’s not my place, and I don’t feel comfortable allowing someone else to stay there with me. Instead, I zip my lips and leave it at that.
Grant utters some kind of protest on the other end, but I’m no longer listening … because up ahead, rounding the corner is none other than Cainan James himself.
“Hey, I’m sorry,” I tell Grant. “I have to go.”
“Everything okay?”
“Of course,” I say, thumb hovering over the disconnect button. “Talk later?”
“Yeah, sure.” He doesn’t mask the frustration in his voice before hanging up.
Cainan spots me, and my stomach caves as I wait for his reaction. Holding my breath, I remind myself to breathe.
“Hey, stranger.” His smile almost makes me forget he’s ignored me for the past two weeks.
Did I text the wrong number by mistake? There’s a chance Cainan didn’t get my text. It might’ve gone to some random person instead, and I’ve gotten my panties in a wad over nothing.
“Hi.” I force a smile. And then the question comes before I have a chance to stop it. “Did you get my text the other week?”
He sucks in a breath through clenched teeth, wearing an apologetic mask. “Yeah. I did.”
I lift my brows. “And?”
His eyes search mine. He’s trying to come up with an excuse, I can tell. Only, doing such a thing would be an act of hypocrisy given his strong stance on not sugarcoating the truth.
“If this is about Grant …” my voice trails off, half of me willing him to assure me it isn’t.
Only that isn’t what happens. At all.
“I’m going to be completely honest with you,” he says. “It’s absolutely about Grant.”
His words are a swift blow, a sucker punch to the ego. But I don’t let it show.
“I don’t understand,” I say. “Grant gave me your number. He told me to reach out to you if I needed anything. I don’t think he’d be upset about us having coffee or talking books …”
Silence weighs between us, heavy with a thousand unsaid words.
Did he feel it too? And if he did, would he ever admit it?
Does he not trust himself around me?
“You know what, don’t worry about it.” I wave him off and check my watch. “I’ve got to get going. I’ve got plans tonight, so …”
I won’t beg him to be friends with me.
I also won’t stand around and pretend I didn’t fall asleep last night imagining the intensity of his kiss against my mouth or the way my body would melt against his without a single protest, no matter how wrong it would be.
“What are your plans?” he asks.
“I’m catching a show on Broadway.”
“Let me guess … Chicago.”
I smirk. “Either you’re psychic or you’re making fun of me for being a predictable tourist …”
“What time is it?”
“Five fifteen.”
“No—what time is your show?”
“Seven thirty. Why?”
His lips press together and his brows meet. He looks like a man on the cusp of a bad decision. “You want to come over for a drink before? Maybe tell me a little more about that book?”
I nod before I have a chance to talk myself out of it.
* * *
His place is as quiet and impressive as he is.
Marble floors in the entry. Tall ceilings. Oversized limestone fireplace. Pristine chef’s kitchen. The faint scent of bergamot and sandalwood baked into the walls. Dark wood accented with burnished metal. Leather wrapped everything. Comfortable but not gargantuan or in-your-face.