Total pages in book: 154
Estimated words: 148473 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 742(@200wpm)___ 594(@250wpm)___ 495(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 148473 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 742(@200wpm)___ 594(@250wpm)___ 495(@300wpm)
“Name it.”
“I have to know—what made you climb it? Was it because it was there? Because honestly, that’s reason enough.” Every moment with her is a delightfully unpredictable show, and this one might just be the most Maeve thing yet.
As she fiddles with the pieces of the dress, trying vainly once more to fix it somehow, she confesses, “Angelina said she’d email me tonight.” Angelina is Maeve’s agent, and Maeve has been waiting to hear about a particularly coveted commission that could be a big break for her.
“Did you get the gig?”
She shrugs. “No idea. This sort of took precedent,” she says, gesturing to her ripped bodice. She spins around, searching the library. “Wait! What if I carry a bunch of books in front of me? I can hold them like a prop!”
“That might be a little obvious.” But that word—obvious—presents the solution. For fuck’s sake, how did I miss this?
I shed my suit jacket and thrust it at her. “Here.”
“You’re brilliant,” she says as she slides her arms into it, the cuffs hitting the tips of her fingers. A laugh bursts from her. “Why do you have to be so big?”
But that’s not really the problem. The problem is the button in the middle, since that’s where jacket buttons live. When she fastens it, the jacket doesn’t even begin to cover up the top of her breasts, which, wow, look particularly lush and tempting right now.
Get it together.
“It looks better on you anyway,” she adds, shrugging off the jacket and handing it to me. I set it on the ornate arm of the forest-green couch.
“Not sure I agree. Looked pretty good on you.” Though I’d never admit just how good.
Maeve, ever the optimist, scans the room. “Think there’s a wrap or something lying around? Maybe a fancy scarf or a throw forgotten by some posh guest?”
Her suggestion is cute, but I have another plan. It just requires a little ingenuity. “I’ve got a better idea,” I say, brushing my fingers over the fabric of my vest, then glancing at her elegantly twisted hair. The solution is right there. “But I’m going to need your help. Can you hand me one of those hairpins?”
“Sure thing.” Always game, she reaches up to pull one out, and as she does, the bodice of her dress slips lower.
Her dress was already hanging by a thread. Now, gravity tugs down, leaving nothing but the barest of barriers between us and something far more dangerous. Rogue thoughts conjure scenarios I’ve no business entertaining—her dress torn away, her body laid bare, her lips daring me to do something reckless.
I fight to clear my head, but my imagination has always been a double-edged sword. As a kid, I was always pretending I was someone else—a superhero, a spy, a pirate, a fireman, and sometimes even a professional hockey player.
Okay, that last one came true. But that doesn’t mean this push-Maeve-up-against-the-wall one will. Because it’d be a very bad idea. Our lives are too tangled together. Something might go wrong. I hate when things go wrong.
Focus—fix the dress, help her out, get your head back in the game. But damn, if it isn’t a struggle when Maeve is this close, this vulnerable—a temptation I never expected I’d struggle to resist.
Focusing on things I can control, I take the hairpin and blow out a steadying breath.
“Question for you,” she begins.
“Yeah?”
“What’s the plan?”
Wresting control of my thoughts, I give her a don’t you worry grin. “Do you trust me?”
Her head tilts. “You know I do.” It comes out soft and true. A promise made again and again over the years.
A promise kept.
“I’ve got this, then.” I tuck the hairpin in my pocket then make quick work of the buttons on my vest. Good thing there are more of them. Good thing they go higher than the one on my jacket did. Maeve’s eyes widen with intrigue and then with understanding.
“Are you MacGyvering me an outfit?” There’s excitement in her voice now. Maybe even a thrill.
I don’t say a word. I answer with actions, sliding the vest onto her. One side, then around her, then the other side. My hands feel a little buzzy as they touch her arms.
“Good thing I told you to wear a vest,” she says.
“And I resisted. But you knew best.”
She rolls her eyes. “Don’t give me too much credit tonight. You’re the one fixing my dress without a sewing kit.”
But I’m giving her all the credit because, so far, she looks extraordinary in my clothes.
She slips on the dark blue vest, and I do the buttons up. Her scent tickles my nose. At her brother’s wedding it was wildflowers. Now it’s like sweet plums, something I’d pick from a tree in the summer and sink my teeth into. My pulse surges as my fingers skate over her soft skin. This is ridiculous, these reactions to her. She’s a friend—that’s all.