Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 72027 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 360(@200wpm)___ 288(@250wpm)___ 240(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72027 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 360(@200wpm)___ 288(@250wpm)___ 240(@300wpm)
“Yes, sir.” My southern manners kick in and I try to climb into the car, but wearing this short trench coat makes it nearly impossible to be ladylike. I tug down the hem and pray Mr. Hammond doesn’t get a view of anything private.
Once seated in the car, I slide over toward the window, holding the edges of the coat in place. The soft leather of the seat caresses the backs of my legs, all the way up to my panties. Outside of wearing a swimsuit, I’ve never exposed so much skin in public. My mother would be livid, and my father would have Mr. Hammond cuffed and bent over the car, likely asking about his intentions with me.
In one fluid motion, Mr. Hammond folds himself into the backseat as I gape at him in awe. His every move stirs a craving inside me I don’t recognize, making him lethal to my virtue.
Once he’s sitting next to me, his long legs spread to give him more room, taking up the empty space between us. I have no idea where to place the bag with the cherry tart in it, so I set it on top of my naked legs. The tart feels warm against them.
After Mr. Hammond shuts the door, his cologne fills the air, reminding me of the fresh pines in the forest near my home—clean, woodsy, and masculine. A couple more breaths later, and there’s a good chance I won’t survive the ride to Don Black’s house. He smells divine.
“Lawrence,” Mr. Hammond addresses his driver, sitting in the front seat. “Please place this up front. Also, can you check the trunk for a blanket?” He takes the sack off my lap and passes it through the divider to his driver.
“Certainly, sir.” His driver exits the car and walks to the trunk.
I don’t understand why he’s asking for a blanket in May, especially since the car feels warm with his body heat radiating all around me.
“Are you friends with Mr. Spears?” Mr. Hammond demands. He balls the fist resting on his strong thigh and releases it. His neck muscles strain as he awaits my answer.
“We only just met today outside your building.” Thankfully, I don’t have to lie, though I do omit some of the truth—and the fact that I have a drink date with the man in question.
“A word of warning. Stay clear of him,” he cautions with a sideward glance, and I nod.
Mr. Spears comes across as a big creeper. Meeting him tomorrow night sounds like a big mistake. How did finding a job become so complicated? I never thought I’d have to maneuver between two men.
The car shakes when the driver returns to the front seat and shuts his door. “Sorry, sir. There isn’t anything in the trunk.”
“Thanks for checking.” Mr. Hammond mutters something else under his breath. I love watching his full lips move, though I can’t make out what he’s saying. “Mrs. Mackenzie gave you the address, correct?”
“Yes, Mr. Hammond. It’s plugged into the GPS,” the driver responds, pulling the car into busy Manhattan traffic.
Hardly a minute passes before Mr. Hammond twists and turns in his seat, attempting to remove his suit coat. His wrestling act takes up even more space in the backseat, so I move closer to the window to give him more room.
Once he’s out of his jacket, he turns toward me for the first time since we entered the car. His eyes blaze and his jaw is hard set, but the intensity he displays doesn’t feel like anger, more an internal struggle of some kind.
“In case you’re cold.” He lays the suit coat over my exposed legs. When his fingers caress the skin on my upper thighs, I gasp, and he jumps like he touched a hot flame. “Pardon me.”
“No worries.” With shaky hands, I smooth his jacket over my legs. The soft wool feels warm from being wrapped around the larger-than-life man.
“The bakery owner assured me I bought the best cherry tart in Manhattan.” I decide to try some small talk.
“Thanks for helping me out.” Mr. Hammond looks at me with his intense dark eyes. My heart flutters as this beautiful man gives me his full attention. “We are on a mission to ensure he makes the Warwick Awards dinner this Saturday night. He’s up for book of the year, and his attendance is uncertain.”
“Why wouldn’t he come?” I ask.
“That’s the multi-million-dollar question. Literally.” Mr. Hammond rakes his hands through his inky black hair, releasing a breath of frustration. “Since he’s not answering our emails or calls, we’re going to him. I’m banking on your fresh face versus my old mug getting us past the front door.”
“I’ll do my best not to fangirl too much. Where does he live?” I remember Mr. Black’s bio mentioning New England and figure it can’t be too far if we’re driving there.