Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 123058 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 615(@200wpm)___ 492(@250wpm)___ 410(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 123058 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 615(@200wpm)___ 492(@250wpm)___ 410(@300wpm)
“But if you’d just listen—shit! Wait up.”
She’s fast on those heels, a lithe blade of speed and precision. She weaves through a crowd of guys in suits, and one of them whistles, making some overloud comment about her perky ass. I shoulder-check him as I barrel past, trying to keep up with Brenna.
Outside, she glances back and scowls when she catches sight of me. Her scathing curse and increased speed make me grin. Does she actually expect to shake me?
“You might as well slow down,” I say. “I’m walking you home.”
She lifts her chin and keeps up her pace. “Go away, pest.”
“That would be a no. Safety first, Bren.”
“Pfft. I don’t need a bodyguard. I could kick your ass if I wanted to.”
I shouldn’t find that hot. But of course, I do. “I have no doubt you’re a total badass, babe. But humor me, all right?”
Something in my voice must have gotten through because she relents with an aggrieved sniff and strides onward. The air is cold and crisp, our breath visible in the night. Brenna’s thin blouse can’t be keeping her warm. But since I know she’d only chuck my sweater into the street if I offered it to her, I shove my hands into my pockets and move to her side.
Now that we’re walking out in the open, she can’t outdistance me. In those insane heels of hers, Brenna is around five-foot-ten. But I still have several inches on her. Plus, her tight, absolute mind-fuck of a skirt doesn’t allow her to lengthen her stride.
She must realize this because she slows—just a little—not enough to concede defeat, but she’s no longer half-running. Her heels strike a click-click, clickety-click on the pavement. I hear that rhythm in my dreams sometimes. She’ll never know it, but that rhythm is the bass line for “Forget You.” No one will ever know that but me, though. A man has to keep some things to himself.
“I thought you were on a date,” she grinds out after a minute.
My lips twitch at the bitterness with which she says “date,” but I keep my tone bland. “I was. It ended early at the bar.”
This is a lie. There was no date. There hasn’t been for a while. But I’m not about to tell her why I couldn’t face family dinner tonight.
“Look,” she says all brisk business. “Whatever it is you think you heard—”
“Oh, I know what I heard.”
“—is none of your business.”
“I know that too.”
This earns me a fleeting gasp of shock, her amber eyes going wide. Then she huffs as though remembering she needs to stay mad to protect herself. “I cannot believe you eavesdropped on me. You should have said you were there.”
I give her a level look. “Tell me right now that if you overheard me in a similar conversation, you wouldn’t have listened. Because I call bullshit.”
She doesn’t say anything for a moment, just walks with that crisp stride. Then a curse breaks free, and she throws up a hand in defeat. “Fine. I would have listened. Doesn’t make it right, though.”
“Neither of us are angels.”
“You most of all.”
My smile probably resembles a shark’s. Can’t be helped. I’m having weird fantasies of eating her up at the moment. “Thank God for that.”
“And it doesn’t mean you have to bring up what you heard either,” she points out with asperity.
“No. But I still want to talk to you.” Please, please, please let me talk to you.
“No.”
“Come on, Bren,” I say, softer now. “I’m not going to shame you…” Her snort rings loud and long in the night air. Okay, I deserve that. I’ve shamed her before, in lots of different ways. Remorse fills me. “I swear I’m not. I’m not going away either. So you might as well hear what I have to say before you slap me upside my head.”
Brenna rolls her eyes. “I detest physical violence.”
“Uh-huh.”
“But for you, I’ll make an exception.”
A grin erupts. “You’ll make it hurt so good, won’t you, Berry?”
“Argh!” Despite her exclamation, I see the small smile trying to break out. It feels like a small victory to coax that from her.
I’m still chuckling when we arrive at her building and the doorman opens the door for us.
“Ms. James. Mr. Peterson.” He gives us a nod.
“’Sup, Tommy. You got any comment about last night’s game?”
Tommy’s deadpan expression doesn’t change. “None that I’m willing to give, sir.”
Saluting him, I step into the lobby and catch Brenna’s narrowed gaze.
“How do you know my doorman’s name?”
I can practically hear the frantic thoughts running through her head. I’ve visited many times—not on my own but when she hosts get-togethers and dinners. Certainly not enough to know her night doorman.
Leaning past her, I push the number to her floor. “I saw Tommy at the Garden during a Knicks game and invited him to sit with me.”