Total pages in book: 161
Estimated words: 154890 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 774(@200wpm)___ 620(@250wpm)___ 516(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 154890 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 774(@200wpm)___ 620(@250wpm)___ 516(@300wpm)
I’m expecting an informal interview, not a honey-dripped seduction.
But that doesn’t mean I won’t grab it with both hands…
→ mistaken identity
→ brother's best friend
→ dirty talking, swoony hero
→ a sassy go-for-it heroine
→ office romance shenanigans
→ forced proximity goodness
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
Women are fickle, you know. And men are idiots.
~ Marc Levy
1
MIMI
Hello, Whit. It’s been a while.
I give my head a tiny shake, frowning at myself in the mirrored walls of the elevator.
Hi, Whit! Remember me?
My frown deepens because that’s even worse. I doubt he’ll remember me, given I had braces and pigtails the last time I saw him.
Hi, Whit. I heard you literally own your own bank these days, so I thought…
I’d turn up on your doorstep with my begging bowl. Fine, my résumé.
My thoughts are interrupted as the elevator comes to a smooth stop. The doors glide open, but I find I can’t move as I press my hand to my chest, my poor heart flapping like a landed fish. This is the chance you wanted, I remind myself. Spreading your wings. Doing all the things. The doors begin to close, and I spring forward like this is the last chance saloon, turning sideways as I slide between the two.
So it looks like I’m doing this.
No big deal. I haven’t seen him in a zillion years, but that’s okay.
I slide my phone into my one good purse and hike it higher on my shoulder. No need to check I have the right door because there’s only one on this floor. Plus, the guy at the fancy concierge downstairs called up to let Whit know I was on my way. There’s no mistake. I’m in the right place.
And what a place it is—the lobby downstairs was decked out like a fancy six-star hotel. The low tasteful hum of music overlaid by the sound of my heels on the onyx marble floors, sofas, and a concierge desk, light fittings that look more like art installations. I guess some important people must live here, given the muscle-bound security detail who insisted on going through my purse with a fine-tooth comb. They even made me take off my cute beret, and I don’t think they were expecting to find a marmalade sandwich, even if my new coat makes me look like that cute teddy bear the Queen of England, God rest her soul, had tea with last year. Paddington, I think he was called.
I slide off the beret, suddenly conscious of looking like an overgrown toddler. But London is so much colder than I expected. I thought March was supposed to be the start of spring, but it’s been gray and gloomy since I arrived. I’ve seen the sun twice, but I swear there was no heat in it.
The decorator sure liked mirrors, I think as I stare at my reflection in a passageway that is basically a hall of mirrors, without the maze connotations and crazy shapes, thankfully. Their surfaces are mottled with age, or at least, made to look that way, the copper and verdigris making a sepia picture of me as I throw my coat over my arm and slide a lock of my summer-blond hair back into place.
At the shiny, onyx front door, I straighten my white shirt and give my pencil skirt one last tug. When I raise my fist to knock, the first wrap of knuckles pushes the door open. No one stands behind it with a hello, or hi, Mimi, I haven’t seen you in over a decade. I pause, hoping for some sign of life before I press my fingers to the wood and push a little more, remembering every CSI episode that started this way.
“Hello?” My voice echoes as I take a tentative step inside the darkened apartment.
“Come in,” replies a voice deeper than I would’ve recognized. My stomach tightens in anticipation or recognition, it’s hard to tell. Is that truly Whit? He sounds so… grown-up, his tone low and kind of velvety.
Stop being an idiot, he was a grown-up back then. Of course it’s him—his mom gave me the address and the snooty concierge downstairs confirmed it, and they called up.
I fold my coat, placing it on a console then make my way deeper into a room where a wall of windows overlook the shadowy treetops of Hyde Park, the hum of the busy Knightsbridge streets inaudible from below. Recessed lighting falls in distant corners casting shadows against the walls and rendering the stylish space with an intimate glow. I don’t have time to process why the lights aren’t on because all I can think of is there he is. Whit is just a few feet away, seated in a pale-toned armchair. His shiny black oxfords are planted wide, his pants equally dark. My eyes follow the row of buttons up his torso, his shirt folded at his forearms and open at the neck. I can’t see his expression—can’t tell if he’s happy to see me or not because, thanks to the fall of the light, his face is wreathed in shadow.
“Whit?”
“Stop where you are.”