Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 86068 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 430(@200wpm)___ 344(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86068 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 430(@200wpm)___ 344(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
“Oh, it’s the big date night, is it?” he says, his grin widening. “Do you want the Jessica dress?”
“God no,” I blurt out.
Peter laughs knowingly, and I feel the heat creep up my neck. Blasted dress.
I order a gin and tonic because it feels like the kind of drink that makes me appear sophisticated but approachable. Carrying my drink with me, I grab a small table by the wall and settle in. I am a little bit early, because that’s just me, so of course, the first thing I do is pull out my cell phone. I debate telling Sandra and Lucy where I am, but I don’t text them yet. He might not even show and then there will be nothing to tell. Instead, I fall down the black hole that is Facebook. And there it is. George’s latest post. I try to tell myself that’s not what I was looking for, but that’s a lie and I know it.
The post contains a photo of two opera tickets, neatly arranged next to a glossy program with Madame Butterfly written in swooping letters. The caption on the post reads: Saturday night can’t come soon enough.
My stomach twists, a weird combination of envy and curiosity. George is going to the opera, somewhere he always wanted to take me, and I always resisted. I would give anything now for one of those tickets to be mine. I wonder who he’s taking with him. A woman?
No, surely not! It’s far too soon for that.
We only broke up a few weeks ago. Maybe he’s going with his best friend, but do two men really go to the opera together if they’re not involved romantically? I don’t really know, but my gut feeling is no. Maybe he will take his mom. She is cultured, like she actually knows the difference between Puccini and pasta shapes.
I zoom in on the picture, as if that’s going to tell me anything more, then I quickly click out of Facebook and lock my cell phone. What am I doing? Stalking my ex on Facebook while waiting for my ‘not date’ to start? This is tragic. Absolutely tragic.
I take a cautious sip of my drink and check my watch.
Ten minutes to eight.
Then five.
He’s not coming, is he? I try to remind myself I am early and he’s not even due yet, but that doesn’t change the fact, he’s not coming. Of course he’s not coming. I can’t believe I came. I’m about to resign myself to finishing my gin and tonic and sneaking out for a cheeky takeaway when a shadow falls across the table.
I glance up, and just like that, breathing feels like an optional activity. Oh Gosh! How can a man be so effortlessly gorgeous? And he’s really tall. I forgot that about him. His broad shoulders are currently filling out a midnight-blue, button-down, rather gorgeous shirt that looks like it was made specifically for him. He has paired it with a pair of low-swung, black jeans that perfectly hug his slim hips. His sleeves are casually rolled, showing his forearms in that careless way that somehow makes the veins on his arms more noticeable than they have any right to be. His glossy hair is slightly messy in that artful way that suggests he either spent a lot of time on it or none at all. And his jawline, yeah, I can’t ignore that. That jawline could cut glass. Definitely made in America.
He places a drink on the table, the exact same one I’m already drinking, which gets him a brownie point for noticing, and another for top-grade smoothness. I watch bemused as he slides down opposite me like it’s the most natural thing in the world to do.
“I thought you might want a refill,” he says, his voice low, his American accent even more sexy than I remembered it to be.
I swallow, suddenly aware of the flutter in my chest. He’s too good-looking for my liking. Nerves. Just nerves. Not attraction. Definitely not that.
“Thank you,” I manage, glancing at the glass and then back at him. “I’m Pippa, by the way.”
“Pippa. I like it,” he drawls, and he looks so adorable, my stomach flutters. He leans back, one arm draped over the back of the chair as if he owns the freaking place. Effortlessly hot. Effortlessly confident. “I’m Rhett.”
“Rhett?” I say with a frown. “I thought your name was Roger. From the text?”
His mouth curves into a grin, slow and knowing. “Roger Rabbit. It was… a joke.”
I feel the damned heat rush up my neck and fly into my cheeks. I try to hide it behind my hair, but it’s too late.
“You’re blushing … again.”
“I am not.” Except I am, and the smirk on his face says he knows it.
“Admit it,” he says, leaning in a little. “You walked right into that one.”