Total pages in book: 161
Estimated words: 154890 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 774(@200wpm)___ 620(@250wpm)___ 516(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 154890 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 774(@200wpm)___ 620(@250wpm)___ 516(@300wpm)
I’m such a fucking pervert. I glance at my balled fists, wondering how stupid I’d look if I just sat on them. It would serve me right if she turned her head and caught me staring. It’s with gut-twisting comprehension that I realize she already has.
“See anything you like?”
“What?” I resist the urge to shake my head.
“I said, what are you like. You know, Brit speak.” She tsks and rolls her eyes, affecting what I think is supposed to be an English accent. “What are you like, you total plonker?”
“I don’t know…” What this moment is about.
“I thought it was meant to be rhetorical.” She turns back again.
“Does that mean you’ve found the file?”
“No.” She stands straight suddenly. “I just thought I’d make myself feel better. I know I sent it. It’s weird that it’s not there.”
And now? Now I’m staring at her tits. It’s hard not to because they’re there—right in front of me. Maybe I should stand, then my eyes wouldn’t be at tit level. But then she might notice this massive hard-on.
“Like I said…” I clear my throat, the words rusty. “I’ve been using email longer than you’ve had adult teeth.”
“I doubt that.”
“You saw yourself.” I gesture to my laptop. “The email wasn’t there.”
“That’s not what I meant,” she says softly. “You’re trying to remind me how much older you are. I was just disputing that fact.”
I don’t have an answer because the top button of her blouse has slipped free to reveal the smooth valley of her cleavage and the scalloped edge of her bra. A hot prickle runs the length of my spine. Since when has a little lace been so titillating?
“Why are you here?” I find myself asking.
“Because you called for me.”
“No, Mimi. Why are you here in London?” Is it to torment me? Because it’s pure torment having her here and that’s without the inadvertent flash of her cleavage, her inappropriate questions, the sight of her stellar arse, and the way I’m tempted to touch it constantly.
She doesn’t answer for a beat but turns her attention back to my laptop again. And I go back to contemplating her arse.
“Found it!” I startle at the announcement. “It was in your spam. Do you want me to print it out for you?” She glances toward the cabinet that houses my laser printer.
“That one’s not working, remember? Just… have it on my desk first thing Monday. Now, I want you to answer my question.” Reaching out, I take her hand in a brotherly fashion. “Tell me why London? Why now?”
“Because I needed a change.” When it becomes obvious that isn’t going to cut it, she inhales and starts again. “Look, when Connor died, my parents’ lives fell apart. They became so fearful, Whit. They saw danger around every corner for me. I understood why and I really wanted to help them, so I chose to live the kind of life they wanted. I went to college nearby in the kind of setting they wanted.”
“Meaning what?”
“I went to an all-girls Christian college,” she says, sliding her hand to her hip. “It wasn’t at all like you see in the movies.”
“Are we talking mainstream or…” Not a very brotherly inquiry.
“There were no parties and no pillow fights,” she says with a knowing smirk.
“You sound disappointed.”
“And you sound like you’re enjoying this a little too much. Do you want this answer or not?”
I make a gesture with my hand. Please, go on.
“I moved back home after college. I moved into the apartment. An apartment above my parents' garage. You can guess how that was. But I did it for them. And then, well then I realized I only have one life, and I have to live it for me.”
“So being here is about distancing yourself from their influence?”
“It’s about experiencing life, Whit. I’ve always wanted to come to London. I guess I have you to thank for helping me discover that London isn’t just a city of skyscrapers. It’s like a patchwork of places, each quite unique. Art galleries and cozy pubs, lush green parks and filled-to-the-brim museums. It’s castles and palaces and tiny, crooked streets—walls daubed with artwork. It’s music and food from all over the world!”
Her face lights up as she speaks. I bet if I pressed my hands to her cheeks, I’d feel the heat of her sunshine.
“That’s all on you.” She seems amused and discomforted to have revealed so much, judging by the way she reaches up to slide away her hair. “You and your accent. My fairy prince.”
“I’m no fairy tale. I more like a horror story.”
“To work for, sure.”
I narrow my gaze, not sure if she’s teasing. “I guess you’re a little less so now that you’ve realized I can do the job and that I’m not going anywhere. But yeah,” she says, hurrying on. “I loved your accent, dreamed about coming to London, and life is about living life and not giving in to fear.” She holds out her hand in culmination. Sort of, so here I am.