Total pages in book: 106
Estimated words: 100716 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 504(@200wpm)___ 403(@250wpm)___ 336(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100716 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 504(@200wpm)___ 403(@250wpm)___ 336(@300wpm)
When my chuckle reaches her ears, her pretty eyes snap to me. She drinks in my riled expression like she knows not a groove between my brows belongs to her before she wrinkles her adorable nose.
“If you needed a ruse to escape her clutches, you could have just t-told me.” She hints at an interest in fashion by adding, “Her scarf cost over five thousand dollars. It w-would have only taken a wayward drop of coffee to have her running for the closest washroom.” As quickly as jealousy was etched on her beautiful face, it is replaced with remorse. “I’m sorry. That was uncalled for.”
“Not necessarily.” I slouch low in my chair as if I weren’t mere seconds from vacating it before draping my arm across the one next to me like I have all the time in the world. “I was seeking an out.” She looks pleased, and it thrills me immensely. “And I’d be a liar if I said I wasn’t as equally invested in learning how you developed your date-skirting techniques as I was to skip this date.”
“Date? You were on a d-date?”
She looks set to run when I nod, but the fire she’s endeavoring to relight in her eyes keeps her feet firmly planted on the ground.
There’s that fighter I’ve been endeavoring to unearth.
“Do you always take your dates for filtered c-coffee in a conference room?” She doesn’t call me a cheap ass, but her humorous expression most certainly does.
Before answering, I take a moment to relish the resurrection of some of the wittiness her attack six months ago stole. “Not always. Sometimes I offer them lukewarm tap water instead of coffee.”
Fuck, she’s beautiful. Her lips are as ruddy as her cheeks, and her eyes glisten with life regardless of the secrets they hide, but neither of those points has anything on her sheer beauty when she smiles.
It knocks down my defenses hard and fast and has me thinking with the personal side of my head instead of the business side. “How’s Tillie?”
I have to adjust my position when she can’t help but respond to the sincere interest in my tone. Her kissable lips furl, making them more plump, as a handful of her teeth are exposed.
“She’s better.” A hint of shyness impinges on her cheeks. “Despite al-almost burning down our kitchen, you’ve gained yourself a new fan.”
I don’t know the man seated across from her when a warmth tracks across my cheeks. I could never be accused of being shy, but recalling Tillie’s commentary seconds after I left her room warrants some sort of response.
It isn’t that Tillie is crushing on a man almost four times her age blooming my cheeks with heat. It was Mara’s lack of retort when her daughter tricked her into admitting she found me attractive and the fire-sparking kiss we shared in her poky kitchen only hours later.
Desperate to shift my thoughts from how kissable her mouth looks, I ask, “Is she eating?”
When Mara nods, stealing my focus from the second grumble of her stomach, I’m tempted to ask, Are you?
I lose the opportunity when she glances at someone over my shoulder. Panic surges in her diamond-shaped eyes when she locks on Mr. and Mrs. Whitten in the building’s foyer, but it is only half its strength when she returns them to me.
“I sh-should go. I’m already behind schedule.”
My hand shoots out to grab her wrist before my head can warn me against it. I don’t grip her painfully. She can remove her arm at any time. I just can’t let her leave without ensuring she knows my regret about how I ended things Monday night.
She sees my remorse and lets me off with only a slap to the wrist. “If that’s all, sir, I will l-leave you to your guests.”
I want to tell her no. I want to force her to stay and share every sordid detail her eyes hide, but with our duo about to be plumped out to a quartet, I act like a coward instead.
I dip my chin, granting her permission to leave, before I stray my eyes to the conference room table so I don’t have to witness her brisk retreat.
After diverting Mr. and Mrs. Whitten’s focus to another resident, Rafael enters the office from a door across from the one Mara exited half a second earlier. He props his shoulder against the doorjamb before folding his arms over his chest. His expression is filled with sappiness.
“She’s the one, Ark. She is the ideal wife for our future president.”
I pfft his blatant stupidity. “Veronika couldn’t—”
“Not Veronika.” While twisting the end of the sleazy mustache he’s been reluctant to shave since a silver screen starlet once told him it was sexy, he joins me at the table, his eyes unmoving from the door Mara walked through seconds ago. “Her.”