Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 102607 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 513(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 342(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102607 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 513(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 342(@300wpm)
She swallows. Hard.
“This is about you and me,” I continue. “And whether or not we want to try. Not Gio. Not his approval. You’re an adult woman who can make her own decisions.”
Easier said than done.
I realize that.
But still, I had to say it.
Nova doesn’t respond right away; I can see the battle going on in her head as she marinates on my words.
“What’s it going to take to get you to date me?”
Her eyes flick to mine, wide.
“I’m serious,” I say. “Just sex? A secret relationship? Me pretending I don’t care?” I lower my voice as the server sets down our appetizer then moves away. “I want the real thing. But I need to know—do you?”
Her nod—if you can call it that—is slow. Still, it’s there.
“Yes.”
It’s quiet. Barely audible.
It hits me like a punch to the ribs—because she means it. She’s scared out of her mind, but she’s saying yes.
I don’t push.
I don’t press for more detail.
“Would you be more comfortable if we established some… rules?”
Nova blinks back her confusion. “Rules?”
“Yeah,” I say with a small smile. “You know, boundaries. Terms. A dating clause.”
Her lips twitch. “Like a relationship contract?”
“Exactly.” I pause. “Clause one: no public declarations of love until at least date three.”
She rolls her eyes, but I catch the flicker of relief behind it caused by my teasing. “Clause two: no posting our giraffe cup baby on social media without the other’s consent.”
“Clause three,” I add. “You’re allowed to panic, but you’re not allowed to disappear.”
That quiets her. “These aren’t actual rules.”
Oh Nova—that’s where you’re wrong.
“They’re absolutely real,” I say, dropping my voice just enough that it vibrates with intent. “Binding agreement. No takesies-backsies. I’ll even put it all in writing if it helps your type-A heart sleep at night.”
Her mouth twitches like she’s trying not to smile. “What about clause four?”
“That depends,” I say, leaning in. “Is that the clause where you admit you lay awake thinking about me, or the one where you kiss me across this table before this date is over?”
“Stop,” she says with a smile on her face. “Clause four: we don’t tell my brother. Not yet. If this goes up in flames, I don’t need him throwing gasoline on the fire before it has a chance to start.”
I fight the urge to roll my eyes. “I wouldn’t dare tell your brother until you were ready.”
That giant fucking cockblock.
“Clause five,” she goes on. “No kissing until at least the fourth date.”
Say what now?
“Then I’d like to formally schedule the fourth date,” I reply. “It is immediately following this appetizer.”
Nova snorts, and God help me, even that’s sexy. “You can’t just stack dates.”
“Says who?” I say, counting with my fingers. “This is date two. Dessert is date three. The awkward walk to the car is four. You let me open your door without mocking my chivalry, boom—make out sesh.”
“That's cheating.”
Eh.
Debatable.
“You’re smiling,” I point out. “You’re doing that thing where you try to pretend I’m not winning this argument, but your face is betraying you.”
She rolls her eyes dramatically. “Clause six: no keeping score.”
“How many clauses are we going to have? I can count, but I can only go as high as ten.”
Nova laughs, her chest rising with the kind of full-body shake that’s impossible to ignore. And forgive me, but I’m human. My eyes stray downward—briefly, respectfully—to admire the absolute masterpiece that is her cleavage.
I snap my gaze back up just in time to see her smirking.
Busted.
“You done?” she asks, one brow arched.
I have two options: lie, or double down.
“Nope,” I say, looking some more.
She snorts. “Clause seven: no ogling the merchandise unless given explicit verbal permission.”
I lean forward, dropping my voice low. “Would you like to go on record? Because that is a terrible clause. That clause is weak. That clause will not hold up in court.”
“Too bad,” she says, standing up, that teasing edge never leaving her voice. “I’m a lawyer now.”
The server returns and we order dinner; a dish to share since neither of us is hungry but also: we’ve already determined we want dessert.
“So,” she says, casually twirling her fork like she’s not wrecking my sanity. “When is date two?”
“Date three, you mean?” I am so amused. “Are you asking because you can’t wait to see me again, or because you’re trying to fast-track to clause five?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know,” she says sweetly.
“Okay,” I say slowly. “Next date has to be something stealthy. Nothing public—like a secluded cabin in the woods.”
“A little too Dateline.” She laughs again. “Not that I don’t trust you not to murder me, but I’d rather not take chances…”
Valid.
“Hmm...” I pretend to think. “What about something that sounds innocent on paper but gives us plausible deniability?”
“Like what?”
“Grocery shopping,” I say as if I have it all figured out. “We meet in the produce section. You pretend to teach me how to pick out a ripe avocado. I flirt with you over bananas. Boom—date three.”