Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 106001 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 530(@200wpm)___ 424(@250wpm)___ 353(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 106001 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 530(@200wpm)___ 424(@250wpm)___ 353(@300wpm)
I’m a negotiator for a living. A goddamn dealmaker, yet I’m on edge with her and her fearless grin as she stares me down. She’d be terrifying in a boardroom. I’d lose every battle to her.
“What is it?” I ask, breaking the cardinal rule of negotiations by going first.
“I like your shirt,” she says.
“Thanks,” I manage to say through the desert in my throat.
She sits on the couch, crosses her legs.
The view. The gorgeous fucking view of her.
So help me god.
But I can’t look away, especially as she glances at the emptied bag from lunch, spotting the name of a sushi restaurant on it. “What kind of sushi do you like?”
I laugh at the randomness of her question. Maybe she needs a tension breaker too. “All kinds.”
“But you have to have a favorite, Bridger. Nigiri, roll, or sashimi?”
“Combo platter, as a matter of fact,” I say, and tap my pen on the edge of the desk, trying to figure her out. This is new for Harlow, this brand of office chitchat. She’s never engaged in it before.
I don’t want to stop. I don’t want to stop a thing. “You like sushi?”
She gives a light shrug. “As long as it didn’t swim beforehand.”
“Vegetarian joke. Good one.”
She gestures to my computer, to the music coming from the speakers. The soundtrack to the musical Card Game plays now.
“I’m not into the game…” she says, starting the opening line to the show-stopping title tune, the tiniest touch of sultry to her voice.
There it is.
A callback to the night in her dad’s home, to our exchange of lyrics. To our first-ever flirtation.
And I’m not careful at all as I volley back, tossing a line about how games don’t thrill me at all.
Her eyes meet mine—those beautiful green eyes that make my stomach flip. “So then why do I want…”
The next line in the song lingers on the tip of my tongue. I desperately want to serve it up, but it’s risky.
I do it anyway. “To play games with you,” I say, then the world blurs away.
There’s nothing beyond those windows. Nothing outside the door of my office.
Everything I want is in this room.
Her eyes never leave mine. “It’s a good question,” she says, but that’s not the next line. That’s her commentary, and yeah, it’s a damn good question for sure. Especially since her voice feels like a caress.
But if I stay here, I’ll never leave this hazy cocoon of lust. I’ll lock the door, push her against it, and kiss the breath out of her. I’ll hike up her skirt, set her on my desk, and devour her. I’ll never be able to keep my hands off her if we keep talking like this.
I clear my throat. “Do you listen to anything besides show tunes?” I ask, hoping that’s innocuous enough.
“I do, but I keep coming back to them. And you?”
“I would have to say it’d be a rare day if I listened to something that wasn’t meant to be belted from a Broadway stage.” This is safer, so much safer.
“What do you like besides Ask Me Next Year and Card Game?”
“Les Mis, and definitely Rent, and of course Sweeney Todd. But my favorite ever is 42nd Street. My mom was one of the understudies for Peggy Sawyer for one of the revivals some years back,” I say, and this is curing my lust. Talking about my mom is not sexy at all.
“Did she ever get to play?”
“Many times. The lead always had vocal problems.”
“Not the kind of thing you want to have when your name’s in lights. Did you see your mom’s performances?”
“Yes. She’s a talent all right.”
She also drinks too much. Lives too large. I keep that to myself, though.
“Do you have a favorite song from 42nd Street?”
“The title track.”
“Can you put it on?” she asks, but before I can move, she’s standing, crossing the distance, stretching across my desk. She’s inches away, and I want to grab her waist, haul her across the desk, and pull her into my lap.
I want to run my hands through her hair and kiss her neck until she’s gasping.
Begging.
Panting.
She clicks over to the new tune. The familiar opening notes play, but she doesn’t leave. She scoots up on the desk and perches on the edge, legs crossed, looking like sin and my downfall as we listen to the song in silence.
The three minutes end far too soon, and when they do, she hops off my desk and heads for the door. But before she opens it, she stops, then walks back to me, taking a deep breath. “I lied.”
I blink, trying to reconnect to reality. “About what?” I rasp.
“I don’t like your shirt.” She tilts her head. “I love it.”
She touches the cuff, fingering the material.
My breath hitches. This close, I can smell her. Vanilla and temptation. I fight back the urge to say I wore it for you.