Total pages in book: 25
Estimated words: 23431 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 117(@200wpm)___ 94(@250wpm)___ 78(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 23431 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 117(@200wpm)___ 94(@250wpm)___ 78(@300wpm)
I look up at Sawyer as I finish speaking to find him shaking his head with a big stupid grin on his face. “God, that girl. That text was from Everly. I don’t even know how she got her hands on my phone.” He’s still smiling, though.
“Ahh.” I nod in understanding. “Speaking of Everly, she’s something. A little young,” I add pointedly, reminding him that he implied I was too old for Sandra.
“Yeah,” he agrees. “But I’m going to marry her, Gabe, not break her heart.”
I’d already figured as much. I’ve never seen him look at anyone the way he looks at that girl. And I’ve been best friends with the guy for almost twenty years, so I’ve seen a lot of women come and go.
He glances at the closed door and back to me. “Look, Gabe, I don’t know what’s going on between you and Sandra, I don’t want to know, but you need to stop this before she gets hurt.”
“Yeah.” I shrug, noncommittally. “Yeah,” I repeat, blowing out a breath. He’s probably right. Sandra seemed cool with whatever the other night was. I should leave it at that. She seems like the kind of girl who’ll be picking out baby names and planning happily-ever-afters and I don’t fucking need that. I don’t. I’m in the prime of my life, right? I’m good-looking. I’m loaded. I’ve got no responsibilities outside of work. My life is great.
So I open the door to Sawyer’s office intent on getting back to my own. Intent on calling any of a dozen women in my phone and scheduling something. Except Sandra’s at her desk. And Dave from marketing is at her desk too. And he’s smiling at her. Prick. I’m walking past when I hear him ask her if he’s picking her up at home on Friday or if they’re meeting at the office. I keep walking, tossing the now empty water bottle I snagged from Sawyer’s office into a recycling bin on the way to my office, and return a, “Good morning,” to my assistant as I pass him. I sit at my desk for a minute, drumming my fingers on the surface, before I snatch the handset of my desk phone and punch in the extension to Sandra’s desk. The digital screen on our company phone system announces all incoming calls, so I know she can see that it’s me. She answers on the second ring.
“I need to see you in my office,” I tell her. Then I hang up. Sawyer’s right. I should nip this in the bud now, before it gets out of control.
She arrives exactly four minutes later, three minutes and thirty seconds longer than it takes to walk from Sawyer’s office to mine, if you’re counting. She crosses the threshold of my office holding a small notepad, apparently prepared for some kind of goddamned business meeting.
“Close the door,” I snap at her and instantly wish I could retract my shitty tone when the anxiety crosses her face. She retreats to the door and closes it softly before turning back, pausing a moment before she approaches. She’s in a dress—some kind of beige cable-knit sweater material that clings to her breasts and hips. Breasts and hips that I have a very clear memory of. I really should have fucked her with the lights off. Memory is not my friend.
She stops a couple of feet in front of my desk. She doesn’t sit—instead, she stands hesitantly and sucks in a breath as if she’s preparing herself for something, gripping her notepad in both hands. She stares at the notepad while I do nothing but run my eyes over her and relive the other night.
“You asked to see me?” she prompts, eyes darting to mine and reminding me that yes, I am the one who called her to my office. I should have come up with a reason for doing so instead of staring at the clock like an infatuated idiot.
Right.
Come up with something, Gabe.
“You’re seeing Dave?” is what I come up with. Why the fuck did I just say that? That’s the last thing I want to talk to her about.
Her shoulders drop and confusion crosses her face.
“What?” she asks, starting to look less confused and more annoyed. I wonder if she likes Dave. I’m better-looking than Dave.
God, I’m an idiot.
“I thought we should talk,” I answer, deflecting the Dave bit for now. “About the other night.”
“It’s okay,” she blurts out. “I understand.”
“You understand what?”
“I won’t say anything.”
“What?” I stare at her, dumbfounded.
“I get it, Mr. Laurent. I won’t say anything,” she says with a shake of her head. “Like it never even happened,” she adds when I don’t respond.
I stand and round the desk, stopping directly in front of her, the tips of my shoes two inches from the toes of her heel-clad ones. She’s forced to tilt her head back or stare at my jaw, so she does, her eyes landing on mine. She looks startled and confused and… aroused. That’s the last thing I see before I crash my lips to hers, my hand moving to wind itself in her hair and anchor her head exactly how I want it. The other is on her hip, moving her backwards till her bottom hits the edge of my desk.