Total pages in book: 22
Estimated words: 20836 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 104(@200wpm)___ 83(@250wpm)___ 69(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 20836 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 104(@200wpm)___ 83(@250wpm)___ 69(@300wpm)
When he settles, his leg is inches from mine. I feel heat radiating from him, and I have to force myself not to lean toward it like a cat seeking warmth. Wow, look at me being poetic and stuff. I pinch my thigh. Hard. Reminding myself this is fake. I repeat, fake.
Adrian's hands rest on his knees, his long fingers relaxed yet somehow still controlled. I find myself wondering what those hands would feel like on my skin, and immediately try to divert my mind, forcing myself to think of anything but him—my taxes maybe, or my bills. Ugh. This is fake. All of it. Just a business arrangement. Me to myself, 'calm the fuck down'.
As the driver weaves through the crazy traffic, Adrian's hand begins to hover near my upper arm, not quite touching, but close enough that I can feel the phantom pressure. The almost-contact is somehow more distracting than actual touching.
"Are you ready, Em?"
I nod, unable to find words.
"Let's review once more. We've been dating for six weeks, even before I read the will. That's why you were so shocked. You were angry I kept it from you, but confidentiality is part of my job. We kept running into each other—the coffee shop, the firm lobby, the bookstore. Coffee became lunch, lunch became dinner, and neither of us could stay away despite our professional conflicts."
"Very Pride and Prejudice of us."
His lips twitch. "Less bonnets, I suppose?"
"Sadly."
The car pulls up to the venue—a historic private club with marble columns and gold-trimmed doors. Adrian steps out first, then turns to offer his hand. As I emerge, his hand finally settles on my lower back—five points of contact, fingers spread wide, exactly how a real boyfriend would touch.
The contact burns through the silk of my dress. I've been touched like this by men I've dated, but never has it felt so electric. I have to force myself to smile at the greeters, to remember my own name when Adrian introduces me. All my focus narrows to his hand on my back.
"Adrian!" A woman in her sixties approaches, elegant in navy blue, her silver hair twisted in a perfect chignon. "I was beginning to think you weren't coming."
Adrian's hand tenses when he presses against my back. "Judith. Good evening."
"Aren't you going to introduce me?" Judith's sharp blue eyes assess me thoroughly, taking in every detail.
"Of course." Adrian's voice remains calm, but I feel the tension radiating from him. "Judith Morrison, this is Emmy Blake. Emmy, Judith is the managing partner at Morrison & Hale."
"Your girlfriend, I presume?" Judith raises one perfectly shaped eyebrow. "Adrian doesn't usually bring plus ones to these functions."
I smile warmly, leaning slightly into Adrian's side. "I'm lucky he made an exception."
"How did you two meet?" Judith's gaze is piercing. "Adrian hasn't mentioned you."
"We kept running into each other," I say smoothly. "The coffee shop by my apartment, the firm lobby when I visited during my grandmother's estate issues. Eventually, he asked me to dinner."
"And what do you do, Emmy?"
"I'm a novelist." I watch her eyebrows rise. "Contemporary fiction."
"How long have you been together?"
"Six weeks." I look up at Adrian with practiced affection. "Though it feels longer, doesn't it?"
Adrian's eyes meet mine, and something real flickers there—something that makes my chest tighten. "It does."
Judith watches this exchange carefully. "Well. This is unexpected." She turns to Adrian. "Remember what we discussed about mixing personal and professional matters."
After she walks away, Adrian releases a breath. "You were perfect."
"I write fiction for a living. Lying should come naturally." But my heart is pounding, and not from the lie.
Adrian's hand returns to my back, guiding me deeper into the ballroom. Crystal chandeliers cast a golden glow over the crowd, the classical music ensemble plays, and waiters circulate with champagne.
"Would you like to dance?"
I look up in surprise.
"You dance?"
"Mandatory at boarding school." He leads me to the dance floor, his hand spanning my waist, the other taking mine.
We move together, and I'm startled by how well we fit. His hand is firm against my back, guiding without forcing. I follow instinctively, our bodies finding a rhythm that feels natural, as though we've done this a hundred times before.
"I wouldn't have guessed you could dance like this."
"There's a lot you don't know about me." His voice is low, his eyes never leaving mine.
The room seems to fade around us—the music, the other couples, the glittering lights—until there's only Adrian. His thumb traces small circles on my waist, a movement so subtle I doubt he's even aware of it. My breath catches in my throat.
Adrian's gaze drops to my mouth, lingers there before returning to my eyes. Heat radiates from where we touch—his hand in mine, his palm against my back, occasionally our legs brush as we move. There's a different kind of tension between us now.