Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 99981 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 500(@200wpm)___ 400(@250wpm)___ 333(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 99981 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 500(@200wpm)___ 400(@250wpm)___ 333(@300wpm)
He rolls the sleeves of his button-down shirt up to his elbows, and I salivate over his forearms like one of Pavlov’s dogs.
So much so, I grab a napkin from the holder to wipe any excess drool off my chin as he spins on his heel to return.
I’m shoving the evidence into the bowels of my purse when he sets down a red basket lined with red-and-white-checked paper in front of me, and one identical to it in front of himself.
“Chicken fingers?” I ask, completely flabbergasted that a kid who grew up as rich as he did eats chicken fingers as a grown man.
“Yeah.”
I roll my eyes.
“What?”
“It’s just…what are you? Twelve?”
He shrugs. “They’re good. Especially with fries.”
“Oh my God, that’s adorable. You’re a child.”
“I may never be a judge on Top Chef, but I assure you, I’m no little boy.”
I blush, picturing the absolute naughtiest meaning of his statement, and he shrugs.
“When I’m out, I eat this way. At home, I try to eat healthy.”
I smirk. “How often do you eat at home?”
“Lately?” He laughs. “Not often.”
“Eh, well. I’m not one to talk. I eat ramen three nights a week.”
“Ramen? Really? And you’re judging me for chicken fingers? When’s the sick frat party, Toby? Are you gonna invite the hotties we saw down at the quad?”
“Shut up.”
“Well, come on. Don’t throw stones at me if you don’t want me to shatter your glass house.”
“I don’t think that’s how that saying goes.”
He laughs and lifts his shoulders toward the ceiling. “It’s close enough.”
“So, um…” I mumble when the conversation gives way to silence. We’re both heavily involved in consuming our chicken fingers—which he’s right about being delicious—but I don’t feel comfortable enough with him yet to sit in silence. “You seem to know New Orleans pretty well. Have you ever lived here?”
He finishes chewing his bite and wipes his mouth before answering. His manners far exceed my own.
“No. But my mom loves it here. We used to visit when I was a kid, often.”
Wow. He has a mother. That he talks about.
I don’t know why that’s so surprising given he’s a human and that’s biology, but I’d kind of been picturing him as some kind of immaculate spawn of Trent Turner Senior and Mother Earth.
“That’s cool. Do you think your parents will relocate down here when the hotel is done?”
“I doubt it.” He shakes his head and leans forward into his forearms, dropping what’s left of his chicken finger into the basket and sighing. “My mom…” He clears his throat. “She’s got pretty progressive Parkinson’s. All of her doctors are in New York, and…well, my dad is pretty set on keeping her there.”
Wow. I wasn’t expecting that at all. I’m not sure why I always assume rich people can’t get sick—because obviously, they can—but it still comes as a shock when I hear this kind of news.
“I’m sorry,” I say simply, and it’s enough.
Trent nods. “Me too. And thank you. That’s the reason I didn’t come down here when I should have.” He shakes his head. “The reason the schedule is so tight. I just wasn’t ready to leave her.”
My chest constricts and warms, and boy oh boy, am I in trouble.
Not only is Trent incredibly attractive and intelligent…he’s also human and vulnerable and…dare I say it, likable.
The only thing I can think to say that isn’t Make babies with me is about work.
“The schedule is tight, but we’ll make it. I’m confident. It’s a good team, and you’re a good leader.”
“Really?” He raises a skeptical eyebrow, and I laugh.
“Okay. Look. You have a tendency to be despotic…”
He groans pathetically and covers his eyes. I reach out and pull away his hand to uncover them as I keep talking.
“But I can see now that you mean no harm. And you’ve been trying. I can tell, and so can everyone else. Keep it up, and I’m telling you, everything is going to click.”
“I hope so.”
“Hope is a good thing,” I say. “Maybe the best of things, and no good thing ever dies.”
He shakes his head, but both corners of his lips curve up enough to form a real smile. Not a little grin or a halfhearted smirk. But a real, honest-to-God, motherfucking beautiful smile.
“Okay, Andy,” he agrees, showing me that he knows I’m quoting The Shawshank Redemption without saying anything else.
“Just getting you used to the idea of prison, Red.”
He laughs and reaches out to grab my basket. “Are you done?”
I’m a little disappointed, not knowing if there’s anything else to look forward to tonight after we leave here, but I can’t even pretend to still be working on it. All that’s left in my basket is a teaspoon of honey mustard and my dirty napkin.
I nod.
He grabs both of our baskets and walks them over to the trash before coming back to the table.