Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 105183 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 526(@200wpm)___ 421(@250wpm)___ 351(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105183 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 526(@200wpm)___ 421(@250wpm)___ 351(@300wpm)
“Sounds awful,” he says, and I laugh.
“You’ve no idea.”
“You don’t look like you’re dressed for the spa.” He nods down at my cream dress as he polishes a glass, and I find myself smoothing back my already smooth hair.
I hold up my bag. “I’ll soon fix that.”
“Enjoy.”
“Thanks.” I back up but pause when I hear someone clear their throat, and I catch sight of a man sitting at the very end of the bar on the return section that meets the brick wall. His head is down, on his phone, and a stray lock of his thick, mousy hair falls onto his forehead. He moves it with a sweep of his hand, sitting up straight on his stool as he does. His shirt-covered chest expands. The material over his biceps pulls taut.
I swallow and step back as he looks up, catching me studying him.
My breath is shaky when I inhale, and his head tilts, his eyes lazy and intense, illuminated by the glow of the lamp nearby.
Jesus Lord above.
He’s flawless, despite his face being rugged and rough with stubble. He’s solid, despite not being overbuilt. He’s loud despite being silent. His thick hair is long enough to sweep behind his ears, and he does exactly that, leaning back on his stool, interested in the woman obviously ogling him. I bet he gets it all the time. My God, I can hand on heart say I’ve never seen such a stunning man.
I blink.
He latches on to the corner of his lip.
Something explodes in my tummy. Butterflies?
He folds one arm across his chest, relaxed, and brings his other hand to his face, tapping the side of his cheek with the tip of a finger. Thoughtful. My lips part.
Air.
Give me air.
Fucking hell.
I jerk and look away quickly, searching for that air, my body temperature on the uncomfortable side of really fucking hot. What the hell was that? There’s some strange energy bouncing around the bar.
Sparks?
I swallow, head down, perplexed.
Breathless.
Intrigued.
The pull becomes too much, and I lift my eyes, both greedy and wary of taking in more.
I’m staring again.
And he’s quite amused.
But can I stop myself?
His phone rings, and he reaches for it on the bar, never taking his eyes off me. I feel like this has turned into a challenge. Who looks away first. He answers the call, his blazing gaze still on me, and then he talks. I very nearly puddle to the damn floor, his deep, even tone slicing through my remaining sensibility and taking my dignity with it. Because I’m still bloody staring at him while he listens to whoever’s on the other end of the line. Eyes still on me.
“Sure,” he says. “I’m free in half an hour. Meet me in the Library Bar.” He hangs up. Almost smiles, but not quite.
I’m done.
I quit.
I lose.
I look away and back away.
“Do I know you?” he calls, stopping me.
No, I’m just staring at you because you’re fucking beautiful. “No, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to disturb you.”
“You didn’t.”
And what do I say to that?
I cock my head, every intellectual piece of me failing.
“Hey, birthday girl,” I hear Abbie call, and I look back to see her on the threshold of the bar giving me grabby hands. “Come on, come on, we have an aromatherapy body wrap waiting for us.”
“I’m coming,” I say, watching her run back to Charley, excited.
I don’t look at Mr. Handsome again, worried my eyes will explode in my head if I do. So I wander away, frowning at the tingling sensation all over my skin.
“Enjoy your body wrap, birthday girl,” he calls softly, forcing me to a stop.
My eyes dart before me. “Thanks.”
“And happy birthday.”
I turn, my smile curious and unsure. “Thanks.”
He leans his forearms on the bar. What is it with the fucking eye contact?
“I should go.”
“I’m not stopping you.”
“Yes, you are,” I say, laughing. I’m literally paralysed by your fucking eyes, you good-looking bastard. I don’t think I’ve ever been under such close scrutiny.
Holding his hands up in surrender, he smirks very mildly. He knows exactly what he’s doing. I note that his hands are perfect too. Perfectly big. Perfectly formed. Perfectly capable? No ring.
“Happy . . .” I scan the bar in front of him. A laptop. A pen. Of course. He’s here on business. A meeting? A conference? What does he do? “Happy working,” I say, smiling sweetly and lifting my bag. “I’ll be off for my body wrap.”
His eyebrows raise, and his eyes, which I can now see are somewhere between blue and green, fall down my body. “Lucky body wrapper.”
Oh my God. “Nice talking.”
“It really was,” he murmurs as I inhale deeply, pivoting and walking out, trying to adopt a shameless sashay but, I fear, achieving only a pathetic, trembling stagger.
I make it to Charley and Abbie in the lobby, a hot fucking mess. “I’m ready,” I squeak.