Total pages in book: 105
Estimated words: 102411 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 512(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102411 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 512(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
I blow out a breath. “Of course. Sex makes you stupid,” I say.
He laughs again. “Yes, I suppose it does. Fake dating is one thing. Sex is another.” He sighs, then furrows his brow. “But then again, is it sex when I fuck you with my fingers?”
A flush races up my chest to my neck—hell, to my ears. “That feels very semantic, Ford.”
“Did it feel semantic when you came all over my fingers?”
“You know, maybe it did.”
“We should try again,” he says, deadpan.
And while I love that he wants to, I also know it’s for the best that we don’t. “But we shouldn’t, right? Even though I didn’t return the favor.”
He cruises into the Presidio. “Sex isn’t about favors. Or scorecards.”
“What’s it about?”
“How good I can make you feel,” he says.
All the breath escapes my lungs. “You succeeded.”
“Semantically?”
“And otherwise,” I say as we reach the office building. He pulls up in front of the four-story brick building with two minutes to spare. “Thanks for the ride. I guess it’ll be more believable now that we’ve kissed.”
“And now that you’ve fucked my fingers.” There he goes, stoking the fire.
“You really like saying that.”
“Seems I do,” he says, sounding wistful. He leans across the car, slides a thumb along my chin, and says, “You’re fucking perfect.”
The same thing he said earlier. It makes me feel…floaty in a whole new way.
I get out and go, still glowing from the unexpected afternoon orgasm, but also a little melancholic from the realization it can’t happen again.
Even though that’s for the best.
It really is.
“It’s almost perfect,” I declare, adjusting the vintage banker light in Sofia’s new office. “Let me just move it a smidge over here.”
The polished lawyer watches me with intense scrutiny, like everything is fascinating to her, including the way I position her new—well, old and now new again—lamps that were delivered today. I set them down next to a paperback with a title in Spanish—looks like a romance novel.
“That is better, Skylar,” she says.
I smile. “Glad you agree.” Then I position some plants on her side table and add a pillow to the chair across from her. “I know a pillow doesn’t scream attorney, but you want your clients to be comfortable.”
“Of course I do,” she says crisply. “And a pillow does the trick.”
“I love pillows so much,” I say, since, of course, I love pillows.
“What’s not to love?” she replies, then gives me a look that says she’s poised to say something. “Will you feature this before-and-after on your podcast?”
I freeze for a few seconds, then furrow my brow. “You follow my podcast?”
“Of course I do. I was hoping Ximena, Kuo, and Richardson would be featured.”
Hell yes.
“Absolutely,” I say, pulling out my phone to shoot some after videos. At least I can bring attention to my podcast by working with a client. That’s something real.
Unlike the fake thing currently occupying my brain—fake dating the guy next door.
When I’m done, Sofia tells me she’s meeting with a client from a labor union, and my mind spins with exciting stories of who she might be standing up for. Heck, I bet she’d defend the planet if Earth asked her to.
“Lucky client,” I say.
“I’m pretty lucky to do what I love,” she says. “You’re the same.”
And really, I am. I love my job, which is why I keep my focus on Haven Designs.
Not horny Haven.
Which means I probably shouldn’t mention Sexy Reno Guy again on air.
Shame. Seems I’ve grown quite fond of the man I once hated.
22
NO SUCH THING AS TOO SHORT
SKYLAR
Mission accomplished.
Mission accomplished so hard that my friends are shocked I didn’t once mention Ford on the show, even when they goaded me.
And they goaded me.
“Who even are you?” Mabel asks as we leave the studio on a Thursday afternoon.
Trevyn seconds that with a: “What she said.”
I spin around on the sidewalk, walking backward, holding my arms out wide. “When you’re good, you’re good.”
“But you’ve never been good at keeping your mouth shut,” Mabel points out.
“Are you sure you’re Skylar? And not her, I dunno, alien replacement?” Trevyn asks.
“I understand it’s hard to accept defeat. But don’t even try to get out of it,” I say, turning around now and walking with them. “You both need to pay up. You said I’d fold.”
Trevyn whistles in appreciation. “We sure did.”
“I was positive you’d cave,” Mabel says with a shrug.
I drape one arm around her, the other around Trevyn. “And I was a badass babe. Time for you two to buy me an outfit for a board game store opening.”
But the thing about thrifting is it’s hit or miss. A few laps through Champagne Taste, we come up empty. With a beleaguered sigh, I pick up a pink tweed blazer with gold buttons and frown. “It’s all Emily Gilmore here today, friends,” I say.
“And old rich white dudes who golf,” Trevyn says, brandishing a pair of green plaid pants and a matching cap.