Total pages in book: 24
Estimated words: 22634 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 113(@200wpm)___ 91(@250wpm)___ 75(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 22634 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 113(@200wpm)___ 91(@250wpm)___ 75(@300wpm)
I give up on the cantilever and open my laptop, pulling up the project mockups for the Henderson job. Nothing clicks. My mind just keeps returning to her.
I don’t usually do this. I don’t let my mind wander. But there’s something about her that calls to me. Something I can’t fucking forget.
I close my eyes and let my head thud against the back of my leather chair. “Get it together, Voss,” I mutter. Fucking hell. I need to do something. Anything. If I sit here one more second staring at this cursed cantilever, I will actually lose my mind.
Gym. That’s the answer. Move my body, sweat it out, stop thinking about her hair and her smile and the way her laugh hijacked my entire brain.
I push up from my desk so hard my chair rolls back and thunks into the wall. Whatever. At least that’s a distraction. I peel off my shirt, swap it for a clean one, grab my sneakers, and catch a glimpse of myself in the hallway mirror.
This is not the face of a man in control of his life. Or his goddamn heart.
I snort and give myself a don’t-be-an-idiot look.
Then I swipe my phone and head for the elevator, determined to out-run, out-lift, and out-sweat the brunette bombshell haunting my every waking minute.
After my grueling two-hour-long workout, I head to the elevator and notice Mrs. Winslet, one of the long-time residents, clutching two paper sacks and a canvas tote that looks older than I am. Her hair is frosted silver and pulled back in a bun so tight it has its own gravitational field. She’s wearing a zippered tracksuit in robin’s egg blue, orthopedic sneakers, and an expression that says, “I dare you to question my fashion choices.”
This woman is a hoot. I’ve run into her a few times, and each time, she charms me, then switches to “you really should meet my granddaughter.” Each time, I’ve managed to hold her off, but she’s getting more insistent. “Why don’t you let me help you with those, Mrs. Winslet?” I offer.
“Thank you, Preston,” she trills. “You’re truly a lifesaver.”
She hands over the groceries with a little grunt and peers up at me over her glasses. “I told you to call me Nonnie. Or Elaine, if you must. Mrs. Winslet makes me sound like an English teacher with a ruler and a vendetta.”
I laugh, which makes her smile wider. Her eyes are blue, sharp, and a little wicked. “Well, my Grans always said never to call a lady by her first name unless she’s already accepted your dinner invitation.” We step into the elevator, and she presses the button for the seventh floor.
She waves that off. “Your grandmother sounds like a wise woman.”
“She was,” I tell her as we make our way down the hall. She walks slowly, so I match her pace.
“Have you caught up with your work backlog?” she asks, giving me a side-eye that says she already knows the answer. Fuck. That was my last excuse to avoid her matchmaking efforts.
“I’m slowly getting a handle on it,” I lie. I was catching up until a gorgeous brunette blew my mind and stole my goddamn heart. Now, I’m back to barely holding my head above water.
“Oh, that’s great.” She claps her hands together as we reach her door. “Then you have to come by Sunday for lunch.”
She unlocks it and motions for me to follow. The apartment smells like cinnamon, dryer sheets, and a hint of Chanel No. 5. Every surface is covered in photos, knick-knacks, and those books with gold-edged pages that old ladies collect for show. I set her groceries on the kitchen counter and glance around, trying to figure out how to turn down her offer.
Then a photograph in a fancy frame catches my eye. Holy fucking shit. It's her.
My dream girl. My mystery brunette. In a photo right on Mrs. Winslet’s bookshelf, front and center. And her blinding smile isn’t shy or hesitant. It’s radiant, lit up from the inside out. Her golden brown eyes are bright, and her dimples flash from each cheek.
She’s in a dress that hugs her curves, hugging Mrs. Winslet’s side. Graduation cap slightly crooked, cheeks pink, looking right at the camera like she owns the world. My jaw actually drops. My pulse goes nuts. I reach for the photo before I can stop myself.
My mystery woman must be Mrs. Winslet’s granddaughter. The one she’s always talking about. The one she’s been trying to set me up with.
Holy shit. The universe is having a great time screwing with me.
“That’s Hazel, my granddaughter.” I actually make a noise, like I’ve been gut-punched by fate and also hit with a taser. My brain goes blank, then straight into overdrive.
Hazel like the eyes I can’t get out of my damn head. Like the voice that’s been haunting me for days. Somehow, the name fits so perfectly, it’s like the universe planned it that way.