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 need to regroup—I need a day to decompress. I’ll be fine by Monday morning. Equilibrium restored, all grab-life-while-you-can cylinders set to go. But for today, I find I need to hate myself.
“You’re sure you’re okay?” Whit’s tone is concerned as he glances briefly my way.
“Of course.” I want to say it’s not you, it’s me, but that would require an explanation I can’t give. I’m not even sure I can make sense of my feelings. I just know I thought being with Whit would be uncomplicated and now I realize there’s no such thing. “I just wish you’d let me make my own way home,” I add when I realize he’s staring at me again.
“Give it up, he murmurs as the lights change and he merges into the traffic. “Not happening,”
A glimpse of last night flashes in my head and my belly, the thoughts a pleasurable undertow impossible to resist. The thatch of his midnight ink hair between my legs and the rasp of his cheek against my inner thigh as his gaze rose to meet mine. His devilish grin as he—
“Have you got any plans for the rest of the weekend?”
“No.” My insides pulse and pound and I duck my head as though the sensation might show on my face. I absently pluck a thread at the hem of my dress, and as it begins to unravel, I make a frustrated huff. I shove my hands under my thighs against the temptation to pull it. To ruin it like I’ve ruin my plan. I wasn’t supposed to feel like this about him. It was just supposed to be sex—his heart and his feelings weren’t supposed to be my concern. No, that’s not right. I’m not so callous. I just saw Whit as I remembered him. A man irresistible to women. A man always down for a little no-strings tryst. And I suppose he is, but it doesn’t stop me from hating myself a little bit. Turning my head to the side window, I watch the London streets spin by. Well, crawl, maybe. Knightsbridge traffic is no joke, even on Saturday.
“Next time, you should bring a bag?”
“Sorry?” My head spins back. “What was that?”
“Next time we get together, you should bring a bag.” He does that thing men everywhere seem to have perfected—you know the thing where it seems like they barely glance your way but take you all in.
“To save me looking like I’m doing the walk of shame?” I adjust my definitely not for daytime sparkly clutch on my knee.
“I’d say last night deserves a victory lap.” He swipes his thumb at the corner of his mouth, but it doesn’t hide the way his lips tip.
“Thanks for the loan of the cardigan, anyway.” I tighten the navy fisherman’s knit tighter over my dress. It’s long enough to hide the way my dress splits. And its length, I guess. My sparkly bag, heels, and sex hair, not so much. At least Aunt Doreen won’t make a fuss. Her being a woman of the world and all. “I’ll bring it into the office on Monday.”
“There’s no hurry. It’s been at my place for weeks.”
“Well, thanks to whoever it belongs to.” I have no business sounding snippy about who he spends time with (read: bangs) when I’ve told him I want to date half of London. I mean, who does that? Tries to solve a man problem by throwing a few more fictitious ones into the mix?
This idiot. Even if it is for the right reasons.
“Prim.” The accusation seems to hang in the air between us.
“I am not!” Just because I don’t have your kind of experience—” His lips tip kind of ironically. “Just because I want to see more of London doesn’t mean I’ll be banging men indiscriminately!”
“Primrose, my sister. That’s her cardigan.”
“Oh. Good. I mean, God. I mean, thanks to Primrose,” I say… primly.
“She hasn’t missed it yet. And I haven’t missed that this isn’t about you playing tourist.”
“Don’t, Whit,” I say plead softly.
“I’ll play along. For now.”
We fall quiet, the low hum of the radio filling the space between us.
“Well. That didn’t go as planned.”
“What didn’t?” The words fall from my mouth before I can stop them, and I frantically scan my mind for something else to say. “What kind of car did you say this was again?” I ask as he flicks on the turning signal, feeding the leather steering wheel expertly through his fingers.
“A Bugatti. Why, do you like it?”
“It’s cool.” And expensive, at a guess.
“Would you like to drive it sometime?”
“In London?” I ask, aghast. “Thanks, but no. Some of the streets look like they belong on a Harry Potter set. Ye olde world tiny,” I add when he doesn’t seem to follow my meaning.
“We could go out of the city. Find a quiet country lane.”