Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 97994 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 490(@200wpm)___ 392(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97994 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 490(@200wpm)___ 392(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
And if my mother tells my brother…
“Juliette?”
“Sorry,” I say quickly. “Still here. Trying to stay on task so I’m not late.”
“Don’t stay out too late, it’s not the weekend,” she says as if I were in high school and it was a school night. “And if he’s not a gentleman, you don’t have to stay. And you don’t have to see him again.”
I almost laugh. Little does she know, I’m the type of woman who walks out on a man who isn’t behaving like a gentleman.
“I’ll keep that in mind, Mom.” I smile at my reflection to punctuate my sentence, but that fades as a new thought enters my mind. If I have to hide this from my own family, maybe that’s a sign. Maybe this is the kind of complication I should avoid.
“This is not who I am,” I whisper.
“Sorry?” my mother says. “What was that?”
“Nothing.” Nothing. This is just me, being an awful person and a terrible employee, all for a good-looking man who will probably never speak to me again after tonight.
Do not throw it all away for a guy.
“I was talking to myself.”
She laughs, blissfully unaware of my inner turmoil. “Alright, I’ll let you go. Have fun tonight.”
“I will.”
“And call your brother tomorrow.”
Yeah, yeah, yeah.
I stare at the phone in my hand once we disconnect, tempted to message my brother and ask for Aaron’s number so I can cancel our plans.
That would be the responsible thing to do.
Jesus, you always play it safe, a voice inside me says. Live on the edge for once in your life. What’s the worst thing that could happen?
“I get fired?” I shove the phone into my purse before I can overthink it again, grab my keys from the counter, and head for the door.
“Screw it,” I decide, flipping off the lights.
It’s just dinner.
EIGHT
AARON
I get to the steakhouse ten minutes early, which is already a bad sign.
Ha.
You’d think I was nervous.
Charter House is one of those old, dark, and obscenely expensive steakhouses that is a city landmark. Low ceilings, mahogany wood paneling, candles flickering on every table, and bathroom attendants.
I can barely see my own goddamn watch as I fiddle with it on my wrist, that’s how dim it is in this place—so why do I keep checking it?
I don’t get nervous.
I also don’t sit in the parking lot of restaurants for a full ten minutes before going inside, staring at my reflection in the rearview mirror, wondering what the hell I’m doing with my life.
“Real nice, Aaron. Mom would be so proud,” I mutter to myself, finally sliding into a velvet cushioned booth tucked into a corner against a brick wall. It’s half shadowed and private—the perfect place to start a new mistake. “Payback is a bitch.”
No. Retaliation.
A more precise word, yet still ugly.
Uglier still, a revenge fuck.
Petty? Yeah.
Calculated?
I scrub a hand over my jaw, already irritated with myself for hesitating.
What the fuck are you doing?
No woman who looks that ethereal—with soft eyes and softer hair—is going to turn me into a goddamn saint.
Juliette Kennedy is not special, and I’m about to prove it to myself.
I’m Aaron-fucking-Bishop, for fuck’s sake.
I keep shit on lockdown.
Resting my forearms on the table, I try not to continuously check my phone. I mean, who besides Sutton is going to text me now that Bailey is no longer in my life?
Except, then I see her when she walks through the door, a rush of cold air lifting her hair and teasing the hem of her skirt.
I sit up straighter.
Ease out of the booth so I can greet her properly.
She spots me, relief in her expression—as if she half expected me to be a no-show.
Not a chance. I’m here for a purpose.
She reaches me, and I do that thing where I lean down to peck her on the cheek, borrowing the move from heartthrobs in the movies.
Big mistake.
Juliette smells like she spent the morning baking muffins. My eyes dip to the exposed skin on her chest before I can stop them.
A modest dress. Scooped neckline, delicate gold buttons down the front. Capped sleeves. Glowing skin. Innocent, in a way that’s not meant to be devastating.
Her tits look great, as tits often do. Smooth and full and I would know because I had a lace-filled glimpse of them at her place.
I give my head a shake.
This is attraction, nothing more.
Big fucking deal.
“Hey,” I say, gruffer than necessary, annoyed that she exists this vividly. “You look nice.”
Color blooms across her cheeks instantly, and she ducks her head. “Thanks.”
Jesus.
I’ve dated models and social media influencers. Women who treat blushing like a medical emergency, but I’ve never dated someone who blushes this often—as if her body can’t lie, even when her mouth tries.
We slide into the booth, knees brushing, and I remain planted in place, unwilling to move mine.
Juliette is nervous.