Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 88263 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 441(@200wpm)___ 353(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88263 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 441(@200wpm)___ 353(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
“I suspect for my own good,” I say, suppressing another shiver. It’s like this guy knows what to say, which comes off a little too slick. Unfortunately, I like it. “She knows I don’t go for spoiled rich boys.”
“Spoiled? How dare you. I work very hard.”
“Which is exactly what a spoiled rich boy would say.”
He laughs, shaking his head. “If only you knew.”
“I know all about you and your family, gangster boy.” I push his arm playfully. Wow, am I seriously flirting back now? Guess I am. Feels kind of nice, at least as a distraction. “And I am not impressed.”
He’s smirking as he leans closer. “What does impress you then, Keely Something?”
“Intelligence. Charm. Grace. Calm under pression. Competence. Juggling.”
“I can juggle,” he says immediately.
“Shut up, no, you can’t.”
“I absolutely can. I’d prove it, but—”
I look around before pouncing on a passing waitress. She’s got a bunch of small drink glasses stacked on her tray. I grab three before returning them to the table with a flourish. “Prove it, big guy.”
He eyes the glasses. They’re a terrible weight for juggling—all bottom-heavy, totally wrong—but I’m not about to tell him that.
“Let’s make a deal,” he says, head tilted as he hefts one in his hand. Clearly starting to regret all of his life choices. “If I can juggle these, you’ll come dance with me.”
“And if you can’t?” I lean forward with a teasing smile.
“I’ll leave you alone for the rest of the night.”
“Very tempting.” I press my lips together, considering. Worst-case scenario, I have to awkwardly move around for a couple songs with this asshole before I can make my escape. Best-case, I get to watch a Crowley boy embarrass himself. I grin wickedly. “You’ve got a deal.”
Chapter 2
Keely
“Stand back.” He takes all three glasses, two in one hand, one in the other, moving them up and down. “I haven’t done this in a while.”
“Ominous last words,” I say, crossing my arms.
I notice a few people nearby start looking over as he tosses the single glass up and down, catching it, getting a feel for how it moves in the air. Suddenly, I start to wonder if this is a good idea. That’s glass, and there’s a ton of sand around here—if one of them breaks, it’ll be impossible to clean up.
“You picked the absolute worst things for me to juggle,” he murmurs, a mask of concentration slipping over his face.
“Maybe we shouldn’t—” I start to say, ready to give him an out.
But he’s already tossing them into the air.
There’s a moment where the glasses hang suspended in front of him. Floating, as if dangling by strings from the top of the big fake fern. His eyes track them, his hands moving, and then—
He’s juggling. Slightly awkwardly, since the glasses aren’t weighted for this, but he’s doing it. My mouth falls open and the rest of the party disappears from my attention. He’s beautiful, his hands moving in a blur. One pass, two pass, three passes, his face in total absorption, not showing off, not smiling, only intensely focused on the task at hand like there’s nothing else in the world but his palms, the glasses flitting through the air.
It’s that look which seals it for me.
This man is beautiful.
I’ve seen handsome guys before. Jamila and I, we go out dancing more often than we probably should, and I’ve run into my fair share of good-looking men out for a fun time. They’re all the same, at least to an extent. Plenty of money, some of them clever, most of them decent on the dance floor, but I’ve never seen a man so intensely fixated on a single task like this.
It’s incredible. I never in a million years thought I’d be impressed by freaking juggling of all things, but it’s that serious look on his face which clinches it.
I don’t mind losing this bet.
“There you go,” he says, catching the glasses, putting them back down on the table with a clatter after about ten passes in all. Nearby, a couple laughs and claps. Nolan gives them a mock bow, smiling now, that focus gone. But the memory of the intensity remains etched into my brain.
“All right, Mr. Crowley,” I say, offering him my arm. An excited thrill runs into my stomach. “You win.”
“My two favorite words,” he says, murmuring it softly as he steers me to the dance floor.
“Where’d you learn to do that?”
“When I was younger, I had time on my hands.”
“Must be nice, growing up rich.”
“Some days it’s okay.” He turns me to face him as a moderate-pace song starts. He pulls me close, taking my hands in his, swaying with me in a waltz. I laugh, unable to help myself.
“I see you’re a professional dancer too.”
“Only semi-pro. I retired from the circuit a few years back.” He leans down, speaking into my ear over the music. A chill runs down my spine. “Want to know a secret?”