Total pages in book: 68
Estimated words: 65582 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 328(@200wpm)___ 262(@250wpm)___ 219(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 65582 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 328(@200wpm)___ 262(@250wpm)___ 219(@300wpm)
“Sure thing.”
“I’m going to take off.” I shake his hand and hug my mom over her shoulder. “Good to see you.”
My dad, unlike his normal uptight self, says, “Don’t be a stranger.”
“I won’t.”
“Thank you for the donation,” my mom adds. “Love you.”
“Love you.” I snake through the tables and head out before I get stopped again. There are too many ghosts from my past at this charity event and I much prefer the dark brunette with green eyes haunting my thoughts.
Chapter Eight
5:35 p.m.
5:36 p.m.
5:37 p.m.
This is ridiculous.
Why am I a mess over a woman? Since when did I start losing my cool over a chick bringing me food?
There’s a knock on the door. I run to answer, then catch myself as soon as I grab hold of the doorknob. Fuck, calm down. I take a deep breath. Play it cool. Play it cool. I look down. My heart may be steadier, but someone else just woke up. Fuck.
I do ten quick jumping jacks and use a trick that’s never failed me.
Washington.
Adams.
Jefferson.
Madison.
Monroe.
Adams.
Jackson.
Shit. I’ve forgotten who comes next. I open the door, and ask, “Which president comes after Jackson?”
She waltzes past me like she’s been here a million times. “Van Buren and then Harrison.” Setting the glass dish on the kitchen counter, she looks up at me, and smiles. “This is fun. Let’s play more.”
“Tyler.”
“Polk.”
“Taylor.”
And in unison, we say, “Fillmore.”
She laughs, slipping her coat and scarf off. “So dirty.”
I hang her stuff up on the hook by the door. “I never thought about it, but now that you say it, Fillmore is dirty.” I join her on the other side of the bar, keeping the marble counter between us. Also, just in case Big Richard is still awake, he’ll need cover.
“Why are we reciting the Presidents?”
Shrugging, I play it off. “Just keeping my mind sharp.”
She opens a bag she set down with the lasagna, which smells amazing by the way. Pulling out a bottle of wine, she says, “I love brain games. My favorite is Memory.”
I sit on the barstool and watch her as she unpacks. Her expression is happy and carefree as she talks about the game. I like hearing about her favorite things. It tells me more about her, and feels personal, instead of the bullshit a lot of people talk about. She asks, “Have you played?”
“I played as a kid.”
“This is much more challenging than the card game when you were little.” She twists the cap off the wine, and adds, “Wine?”
“Yes.” I watch her work around my kitchen, making herself at home.
She pulls two glasses from where they hang upside down inside a cabinet before returning to the wine and pouring. She sets a glass in front of me and waits. “I hope you like it. I asked a wine guy to help me at the liquor store. He said it would be a good pairing with lasagna.”
“A sommelier?”
“No, just the guy who owns the corner shop down by my work.”
Swirling it around from the base of the glass, I can’t stop from smiling. “You didn’t have to do all this, but please know, I think it’s very thoughtful.”
“I’m asking a lot of you. The least I can do is get you drunk first.” She laughs at her own joke.
It was funny, but that she enjoyed it so much is funnier, so I laugh in response. “So you’re trying to butter me up or get me drunk?”
“Maybe both.”
“What exactly do you have in mind?”
“I think I’ll feed you, and keep your glass full. Let you relax while I clean up after. And then hopefully we get started.”
“I meant the lessons, not how you plan to take advantage of me.” I take my first sip of the wine after letting it breathe, although not quite as long as I should. “I’m not as easy as you seem to think.”
“Really? We were in your office not two hours after meeting.”
“I found you adorably fascinating.”
She can only hold our locked eyes a few seconds more before her gaze lowers to the dish on the counter. “Are you hungry?”
“Famished.”
She looks up and her tongue dips out to wet her lower lip before it tugs under her teeth. She doesn’t realize how sexy she really is—a bombshell that hits you when you’re weak. The air is noticeably thicker. She exhales a heavier breath, but this time her eyes stay on mine. “Lasagna?”
Slowly, I come around the counter and stand next to her. She leans her hip against the counter, facing me, and I say, “Lesson one. The art of flirting.”
“I told you the other night that I’m not a total virgin. I’ve had dates. I’ve kissed plenty of men. I’ve made out with them.”
“This isn’t about sex or making out. This is an art form. If you want my help, and I really hope you do, then we start from the beginning.”