Total pages in book: 62
Estimated words: 59939 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 300(@200wpm)___ 240(@250wpm)___ 200(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 59939 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 300(@200wpm)___ 240(@250wpm)___ 200(@300wpm)
“I know how attached women can be to their panties.” He winks. “Apparently it’s like losing a limb.”
Before I can answer, a sharp fingernail pokes the small of my back. The French-manicured perpetrator is Trisha, who gives a strangled cough that sounds like “ask him!” before she scurries away. Fucking hell.
But since I’d rather humor Trisha’s farfetched suspicions than discuss my underwear, I lower my voice and ask, “Hey, so this is going to sound absolutely ridiculous, but is your name Ben Barrett?”
His grin fades. “Why do you ask?”
I shrug. “One of the waitresses here thinks you’re Ben Barrett.”
He doesn’t answer.
“He’s an actor,” I add.
Still no answer. Wonderful. Have I just insulted him? Maybe he’s one of those celebrity look-alikes who is constantly hassled on the streets and gets pissed off whenever somebody points out the resemblance.
Opening my mouth to apologize, I’m surprised when he meets my gaze and says, “Yes.”
“Yes what?”
“I’m Ben Barrett.”
The apology dies on my lips. Wait. What?
“The actor,” he clarifies with a faint smile.
Clearly he’s kidding.
Right?
Are you a reporter?
His question from last night floats into the forefront of my brain. Why had he asked that? Because, really, only a man who’s used to having reporters around him would ask if I was one.
Which means…
Maybe he’s not kidding?
I focus my wary gaze on his face. “Is this a joke?”
His features grow pained. “No.”
“You’re really this Ben Barrett guy?”
“Lower your voice, Red, will ya?”
Red?
“My name’s Maggie,” I say, absently playing with the hem of my apron. “And I don’t get it. Why don’t you want anyone to know who you are?”
“I…” He rubs his temples. “I don’t want to be bothered. I’ve had a bitch of a time lately with reporters hounding me. I just want to be left alone.”
I raise my eyebrows. “So you decided to come to one of the busiest bars in Manhattan on the busiest night of the week?”
He gives a shrug. “I wanted to see you.”
My heart skips a beat. He wanted to see me?
“You don’t even know me,” I say slowly.
The grin returns to his rugged face. “Well, that can be easily changed.” He says it in a voice so smooth with confidence and so heady with sexual promise, my body grows warm in response. No, not warm. Hot. Burning hot.
Hoping he can’t see my nipples poking against my shirt, I swallow, desperate to allow some moisture back into my mouth. “I’m working.”
I’m working? Again, that’s all I can come up with? What about, Look, you’re hot but I don’t have time for complications right now.
Because I’m pretty sure Ben Barrett would be just that—a complication. He might be sexy as sin, and yeah, his voice gives me shivers that are completely foreign to me, but there’s no doubt in my mind that this man is trouble.
I don’t have time to play games with a movie star, no matter how delicious he looks. That’s why I prefer guys like Tony. Tony doesn’t have time for games. Or much of anything, for that matter. With him, it’s simply, let’s have some hot sex and see you later.
“I’m fully aware that you’re working,” Ben says. “But I’ve waited tables myself before, so I’m pretty sure you’ll have a break in a couple hours, right?”
I nod. “Nine o’clock.”
He returns the nod. “Good. So we’ll talk then.”
“We will, huh?” I arch one eyebrow.
“Yep.”
I narrow my eyes. How arrogant is this guy? He just assumes I’ll spend my dinner break hanging out with him? Like I have no other options? Like his sex appeal is so strong I just can’t wait to be alone with him and—
“I’ll meet you out front at nine,” I grumble.
Then I head back to the counter and try to convince myself that his good looks and sexy voice have absolutely no effect on me.
9
Ben
I smother a laugh as I watch Maggie scurry away. I wonder if she realizes her tendency to blush pretty much eliminates any chance of covering up her emotions. I’ve only been around her twice, but I’m able to pick up on everything she’s feeling from that telltale blush on her cheeks.
Crimson red means she’s embarrassed. I saw it last night, and again today, when I brought up the subject of her panties.
Scarlet means she’s angry, which was evident when I announced we’d be meeting up during her break.
And rosy pink…well, that’s a clear and undeniable shade of arousal.
She’s attracted to me. I know it, and I’m pretty sure she knows it too. Hell, it would be damn hard to deny it, seeing as the sexual tension hissed like a rattlesnake the second our eyes met.
I take a sip of water and reach for the novel I tucked into the pocket of my jacket. Nine o’clock, she’d said. Leaves me with a few hours to kill, but that’s why I bought the book. I tried reading it earlier in Central Park, but I was too tense and too alert. Losing myself in a thriller was hard when I was constantly glancing over my shoulder, waiting for someone to ask for an autograph, or for a photographer to pop out from the other side of the bike path and snap my picture.