Total pages in book: 82
Estimated words: 77611 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 388(@200wpm)___ 310(@250wpm)___ 259(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77611 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 388(@200wpm)___ 310(@250wpm)___ 259(@300wpm)
“You found me.” His voice is deeper, more intimate, and I turn, realizing he’s off the phone and talking to me. He tenses when he takes in my expression. “Did I scare you? Grabbing you like that?”
My attempt at a sheepish smile feels sickly. “Who me? No, I’m used to being dragged into dark rooms and locked inside with strangers. Happens all the time. I just didn’t want to interrupt you. Those phone calls sounded…” Hot. Sexy. Arousing. “Important?”
His eyebrows furrow. “They weren’t.”
I blink at the obvious lie, then do what I always do when I’m nervous. Ramble and spew random factoids.
“I shouldn’t have asked. You know, there’s a famous coin called the Fugio cent,” I start, slipping my hands into my pockets and leaning against the desk so I won’t be tempted to do anything else with them. Like reach out to squeeze those forearms, or toss something to distract him so I can run away. Is that a gang tattoo mostly hidden by the collar of his shirt?
“Benjamin Franklin designed it in 1787 and engraved it with the motto ‘Mind Your Business.’ Historians argue about its meaning, but Ben was a cheeky bastard who had a way with words and some interesting habits. I’m thinking he used the first coin officially minted in his new country to give the finger to people who gossiped about his glass armonica recitals and naked air bath exhibitions.”
Ah, the naked Benjamin Franklin visual. The king of all mood killers.
The man in front of me doesn’t flinch. Instead, he moves closer.
I clear my throat. “What I’m saying is, I should have minded my own business. About the phone call.”
“A singer with a passion for history. That’s an interesting combination.”
“No. I mean yes. I mean I love history,” I fumble, stopping myself from sharing information I never give to potential partners. Because the internet exists and parents and school board members are on it. “But I only sing on special occasions and in the shower.”
“And this is a special occasion? The redhead said it was a big night for you. Why?”
Um… “I really love Christmas parties?”
He grimaces. “Right. Christmas.”
The lust haze momentarily lifts. Maybe he actually is The Grinch. “Don’t tell me you’re not a fan of the best holiday ever invented. Roasting chestnuts, Secret Santas, some guy named Jack nipping at you?”
“Is your name Jack?”
“It could be tonight.”
His lips twitch in response to my quick comeback. Not that I’m staring at them. “I have no problem with Christmas. When you said that, I realized I’ve been so busy I forgot to shop and I’ll need to do a little extra this year, that’s all. I hate shopping.”
My shoulders relax, only to tense again as I wonder who he’ll be doing the extra shopping for. Family? Children? A significant other?
It’s not really fair of you to expect details from him when you won’t give any.
And still, I want them, because he’s fascinating and I don’t want to be a homewrecker if he’s already taken.
“You have unusual eyes,” he tells me. “Beautiful.”
“They’re not contacts.” That’s what everyone asks when they notice them. One is brown and green, and the other is more blue with a russet starburst in the center. Heterochromia for the Win. “And for a dragon, you’ve got pretty eyes yourself.”
They’re a deep, clear brown that shimmer in the golden light of the desk lamp.
He frowns. “Dragon?”
I could kick myself for letting that slip, but oh well. “I was thinking you looked like a sexy beast that really hated being surrounded by so many people.”
He tilts his head, his expression almost predatory as he moves again, trapping me between his body and the desk. “A beast, huh?”
“But a sexy one. It’s a compliment.”
His hand is on my knee, gripping it like he’s afraid I’ll bolt. “Give me your name.”
“I’d rather give you something else.” I’m not sure what comes over me, but the combination of heat and amusement in his eyes is too much to resist. I snag a handful of shirt fabric and pull him down so I can reach him, nipping his lower lip before kissing him the way I’ve been wanting to since I saw him from the stage.
He tastes surprisingly sweet. He must have been drinking hot chocolate with a dash of Irish cream liqueur, because that’s what it tastes like when he parts his lips for me. That and something darker. Richer.
I’m a good kisser. I know this because I spent years practicing, and I’ve seduced both men who were on the fence and lifelong rainbow riders with my talented tongue. If you love what you do, it shows in your work. So when he pulls back abruptly, expression unreadable while he pants against my mouth, I’m not expecting it. I can’t help but wonder again if I’ve miscalculated. Was he not coming on to me?