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 look up, and Jude’s looking at me like I lost my goddamn mind while all the interns stare at me, half bored and half afraid I’m about to assign them some torturous task.
“I eat Cheerios.” I take a deep breath and wipe the scowl off my face. Fuck. Lack of sleep is starting to turn me into a real asshole. “And they were just fine this morning. Let’s get this shit done so I can do something that actually makes us money.”
“Sounds like a plan to me.” Jude takes over the meeting while I’m so wrapped up in memories of Hazel that my brain is basically useless. I glance down at my pad and realize I’ve unconsciously drawn her profile, complete with dimples and luscious pouty lips. Not exactly my best professional moment.
Jude leans over me to eye the drawing and says, “At least now I know what’s up with you. Never thought I’d see the day it happened, but we’re all wrong at least once in our lives.”
“Fuck off,” I grumble back. Not original, but it’s the most I can come up with. The truth is, I haven’t been this off-balance since grad school. I’m used to running the show, calling the shots, building the world I envision. This thing with Hazel has me completely unmoored.
I survive the meeting, but barely. After, I retreat to my office and stare at my phone. It’s time for me to make the next move.
I hit up Google and find a florist in downtown Worthington Hills that does one-hour deliveries. Fucking perfect. I search the site and zero in on wildflowers because, from what I saw yesterday, Hazel isn’t a roses-and-baby’s-breath kind of girl. No. She’s wildflowers, color and energy and beauty that punches you right in the chest. Then I come across the perfect bouquet of blue cornflowers and orange poppies, all tangled up with tiny white blossoms and curly green stems. Perfect. I punch in the order, pay extra for the fastest delivery they offer, and type out my note.
Can’t stop thinking about you. Counting the days until Friday.
Preston
Forty-five minutes later, I get a text from Ever After Blooms, the florist, stating my flowers will be delivered shortly. About fucking time. I sit back at my desk and wait.
Gorgeous Girl
I can’t stop grinning. Thank you for the flowers! My coworkers are deeply jealous.
I read it four times, trying to memorize the way her words sound in my head. I imagine her in the library, surrounded by books and sunlight, smiling at the arrangement, and my chest gets tight. Fuck. I’ve lost my goddamn mind over her.
Me
I’m glad you like them. And the jealous coworkers are a bonus. See you Friday.
The little dots appear again. Then thirty seconds later, her reply comes in.
Gorgeous Girl
Counting down the hours :)
Me, too. Hell, at this point, I’m down to counting the goddamn seconds. I’m useless for the rest of the day. At the gym, I nearly drop a dumbbell on my foot because I’m daydreaming about how Hazel’s curls would look fanned out on my pillow. At dinner, I burn my leftover chili while Googling “best first date restaurants near me.” I go down a three-hour rabbit hole comparing menus, looking at photos of the interior spaces, even cross-referencing YELP reviews. I’m putting more effort into this first date than I did into researching which college to attend. But fuck, Hazel is worth it.
I settle on the Old Towne Steakhouse. The restaurant strikes that perfect balance—dark wood and leather booths that whisper "special occasion,” but still warm and welcoming. They offer dry-aged ribeyes and fancy craft cocktails garnished with things that smoke and smolder. The kind of place where you can order a two-hundred-dollar bottle of wine or just point at the beer list without judgment. Not so fancy you need a tie, but fancy enough that the desserts arrive engulfed in blue flame. Perfect for what I’m planning.
I book the reservation for seven-thirty on Friday, then spend the next hour staring at the baseball game on TV while visions of Hazel run through my mind. Fuck. I couldn’t even tell you who’s playing. Before bed, I decide to run a few miles, hoping to exhaust myself.
I hit the gym downstairs, pounding out four miles at a punishing clip. My entire body burns, sweat pouring off me, but it’s not enough. I’m still hard as a fucking rock, all that pent-up energy ricocheting through every muscle. Hazel is in my head, every second, every step. By the time I get back up to my apartment, my skin is on fire, and my cock is straining against my shorts, desperate for relief.
I yank off my shirt and drop it on the floor before stripping out of my shorts. Then I stalk straight for the shower. After stepping under the icy spray, my hand wraps around my cock, and I barely have to move before my fantasies kick into overdrive—me and Hazel tangled in my bed, her voice breaking as she begs for it. Fuck. I grip harder, chasing the vision of her lips, parted and breathless, her curves pressed against me, and the way she looks at me, hungry, wild, like she wants to be ruined. I can practically feel it, the want winding tight inside me, almost too much to take.