Total pages in book: 111
Estimated words: 105311 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 527(@200wpm)___ 421(@250wpm)___ 351(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105311 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 527(@200wpm)___ 421(@250wpm)___ 351(@300wpm)
Oh wait, they won’t even make the coffee until it’s paid for. Hrm . . . I could arrive fashionably late, but that would be rude. I have no idea what to do. It’s been a long time since I met someone of the opposite persuasion for coffee. This flirting-dating business has me feeling woefully unprepared for this meetup. And with someone I find extremely hot, in spite of his ever-changing moods.
I’m making a mountain out of a molehill. It’s coffee. Nothing more.
Anyway, a molehill is all it can be since I have a job today. I grab my bag and hurry downstairs.
Pete is helping Mrs. Smith to the curb. The door closes behind them as I cross the lobby, determined to ignore the wilting row of variegated snake plants against the far wall. I lose. Again.
Pushing the door open, I hear Pete say, “Sorry about that, Juni. I didn’t see you coming.”
I never mind opening the door for myself. It always makes me feel too pampered when I leave it to the doormen, but they don’t appreciate me stealing their job.
“No worries, Pete. I can handle the door.”
He tips his head. “We’re always looking for help if you want to cover a shift or two.”
“I appreciate the offer,” I reply. “I’ll keep that in mind.” As he helps Mrs. Smith into a taxi, I stroll the block, admiring the trees blooming in their large planters and the birds flying with a blue sky as the backdrop.
When I turn the corner, I spy Andrew pacing the sidewalk with a phone to his ear. The tips of my fingers run the length of the smile he brings to my face before I bite my lower lip. I shouldn’t fixate on such shallow things like his looks or the way his suit hangs on his body just as nice as yesterday's did. And my tummy definitely shouldn’t tighten when I eye that cliff dive of a jaw on full display. But I’m pretty sure I’m not alone, nor the first one to admire this man for his physical attributes.
Men like him get plenty of attention. The last thing he needs is mine.
But that smirky grin he’s wearing when he sees me also doesn’t help settle the butterflies flapping around my stomach.
Keep your eyes on the prize, Jacobs. Coffee, that’s it. Nothing more. The last thing I need in my life is some guy who has me imagining growing a garden, barbecuing on the weekends, strolling through Central Park, or dining out. Nope. I don’t need any of that . . . that . . . fantasy stuff in my life.
I’m not interested in changing. Cut bait and get out is working just fine.
“Hello, Juni,” he says, a grin so devilish that my knees weaken, causing me to stumble over my own feet in my stride.
My arms fly into the air as a high-pitched squeal escapes my throat. “Oh my God!” I exclaim, catching myself. Technically, my face stopped the momentum against his chest, but we don’t need to get caught up in the minutia of the details.
Fortunately, he’s quick with his hands and also stopped me from plowing into him . . . well, any more than I did already. Pushing off him, I try to catch my breath, which was also lost in the fall. I straighten my skirt before brushing my hair back from my face and failing to keep the embarrassment from heating my face.
A small section of hair falls from his prior-to-seeing-me perfectly coiffed hair, and he asks, “Are you okay?”
“I’m okay.” And utterly mortified. But I swallow down that admission.
His kind smile quirks up on one side. “If it makes a difference, you saved it at the end.”
“As did your chest. Oh no!” I reach for his shirt but stop shy of rubbing the fabric that’s now covered in makeup that conveniently matches my face. Covering my mouth in horror, I say, “I’m so sorry.” His expression hardens as he stares at his shirt, but he doesn’t say anything.
As for me, I think all of Manhattan can hear me swallow. I add, “I’m sorry. I can’t fix it, but I can have it cleaned. Again, you probably have your own dry cleaner, but you can send me the bill. Or I can just buy you a new shirt. That won’t help you right now, but—”
“It’s okay.” Nothing about his tone has me believing it’s actually okay, but he’s kind enough to pretend. “Two out of three leaves me one ahead.”
“Yeah, I’m thinking I’m bad luck for you.”
His eyes are more golden when he looks in my direction as the sun awakens the avenue. The hard lines of his forehead finally soften, and he says, “I don’t believe in bad luck. Things happen for a reason.”
“So I was meant to ruin two of your shirts in two days?” I laugh. It’s light but releases some of the guilt. Only some of it. “Look, I feel awful. How can I make it up to you?”