Total pages in book: 21
Estimated words: 19627 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 98(@200wpm)___ 79(@250wpm)___ 65(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 19627 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 98(@200wpm)___ 79(@250wpm)___ 65(@300wpm)
My cheeks heat, butterflies floating through my stomach. "Thanks."
He places his hand on the small of my back, leaning in to press his lips to my cheek. "Our table is waiting."
I don't shiver. I don't.
I'm also a dirty, dirty liar.
Our table is in the back corner, hidden from the rest of the restaurant. It's nothing but us, candles, and the sound of the waves crashing against the shoreline outside the windows.
Instead of sliding into the seat across from me, Royce slides in beside me, so close his thigh presses to mine, and his arm brushes my side every time he moves.
"I ordered a bottle of wine." He grins at me. "We're celebrating."
"What?"
"I said, we're celebrating, babe."
"What are we celebrating, Royce?"
"Oh." He grins sheepishly. "We're celebrating you agreeing to be my publicist."
"You…" I give up trying to argue and just shake my head, laughing. "Have you ever heard the word no in your entire life?"
"All the fucking time, actually. I'm just not interested in hearing it this time." His gaze tangles with mine, glinting with humor. "We have a stupid, childish game to win."
"What?"
"I've been thinking about it," he explains, reaching for my hand. I try to pull it away, but he laces our fingers together. "Your cootie catcher said I was your future. The only logical thing to do is to play it out and see whether the game was right or wrong. If it was right, you win. If it wasn't…well, that's not going to happen."
I stare at him for a long moment, my mind spinning. "We're making decisions about our future based on a kid's game?"
"I like that you called it our future. And sure, why not?"
"That doesn't seem a little—oh, I don't know—insane to you?"
"You're the one who played, babe."
"I was wine drunk! And it wasn't supposed to keep landing on you," I huff, exasperated.
His eyes narrow on my face, a hint of what looks a whole lot like jealousy flickering across his expression. "Who was it supposed to land on?"
"It doesn't matter. That's not the point."
"Who, Emelia?" he growls, his voice so low I feel it in my womb.
"Clayton Devine."
"Fucking Clayton Devine." He strokes his thumb across the back of my hand. A spark races up my arm, sending a shiver through me.
I quickly pull my hand free, grabbing my water.
"How many times did you play?"
I choke on the water. "What?"
"How many times did you play?"
"Uh…"
"You said it kept landing on me." He meets my gaze again, his eyes bright with curiosity. "So, how many times did it land on me?"
"S-six," I whisper.
"Mm." He reaches out, tracing one fingertip down the side of my face. "And how many times did you play?"
I bite my lip, refusing to answer.
"How many, Emelia?"
"Six, okay?" I growl. "I played six different games, and your name came up every time."
The way he grins at me is all sex and sin. "And you don't believe that means anything? Ouch, baby."
"It's just a game," I mutter, burying my face in my water glass again.
He chuckles, his arm brushing my side again. "Yeah, bullshit. But I'm going to let you keep thinking that. For now."
Heaven help me, there's something wrong with this man. Or maybe there's something wrong with me, because I do not hate the warning in his tone or the way he looks at me like I'm prey he's toying with. I don't hate it nearly enough.
Chapter Four
Royce
By the time our food arrives, Emelia has relaxed a little. She's rambling about the Firestorm campaign like her life depends on it, but I haven't heard a word. I'm too busy watching the way her lips wrap around her straw.
I'd do shady things to have any part of me in that perfect mouth right now. I'm officially jealous of a fucking straw.
"Jesus Christ," I mutter.
"The campai…What? she asks, blinking wide eyes at me.
"We need to establish some ground rules, babe."
"Good idea. No looking at me like I'm dinner."
"No can do," I smirk, throwing my arm over the back of her chair to tug her closer. "You can't blame a man for having eyes."
"Don't make me fire you."
"You aren't going to fire me," I say, absolutely certain of it. If she were, she wouldn't have shown up tonight. Fact is, she likes me, even if she doesn't want to admit it. She wouldn't have written my name down every single time she played her little game if she didn't.
Emelia doesn't strike me as the kind of woman who does things without reason. Actually, she strikes me as the kind of woman who probably has backup plans for her backup plans. If my name was on her mind while she was wine-drunk and thinking about future partners, it wasn't in a professional capacity.
I can work with that, because there's absolutely nothing professional about the things I'd like to do to her on top of this table.