Total pages in book: 181
Estimated words: 177690 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 888(@200wpm)___ 711(@250wpm)___ 592(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 177690 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 888(@200wpm)___ 711(@250wpm)___ 592(@300wpm)
My latte is crushed against my chest and runs down my white cashmere sweater—leaving a maroon, brown and vanilla trail of goop in its wake. I stare at my breasts in disbelief and then slowly look up at the wall I ran into. It’s a broad, well-defined chest and the more I look up—the more I like—until I reach the face. I know that face. Gavin O’Leary.
Holy crap!
“Damn! I’m sorry, lady. I didn’t see you coming through here,” he mutters. His large hands are on my shoulders to steady me. I can’t complain because if he hadn’t caught me I’d probably be on my ass looking up at him. As embarrassing as this is, that would have been much worse. When he takes a step away from me I notice he has his phone in his hand. He doesn’t bother checking on me—I mean my drink was a cold drink but all he sees is the Starbucks imprint! I could be suffering from burns! Instead, however, he immediately goes back to texting.
“Don’t worry about me! I’m fine here!” I huff, and almost regret my outburst when his gaze directs itself back to me. He gets a frown wrinkle in the middle of his forehead. It’s been twelve years, but I still remember that look.
“Do I know you?” he asks.
“Unbelievable,” I mutter. I take the crushed cup in my hand and literally shove it into his, trying not to let glee show on my face when a large, messy clop of liquid drops down on his obviously state-of-the-art cellphone. “Hold this,” I growl, trying to take the tiny napkin I have in my hand and gather the worst of my drink off my chest.
“Crap! My phone!” he laments, instantly letting the cup drop to the ground.
“So sorry. Though I’d worry more if my sweater wasn’t ruined, I wasn’t late for work and my boobs weren’t currently drenched in the drink that I needed to get through the day!” I answer, and I don’t really care that I’m whining.
“Shit. Okay. Let me get a text off to my buddy and I’ll help you out,” he mutters, barely looking at me. Seriously?
“Don’t bother I—”
I can’t get the rest of my sentence out because he reaches down and grabs the bottom of my sweater and wipes his phone off.
He wiped his phone off! He wiped his phone off on my now ruined cashmere sweater!
“Are you for real right now?”
“What?” he asks, texting and not bothering to look at me.
“Did you really just wipe your damn phone off on my sweater?”
He slides his phone in the back pocket of his worn denim jeans—and I shouldn’t be noticing how good he looks in them. I’m angry enough that I shouldn’t notice that he’s wearing his hair a little longer these days, or that his blonde hair is streaked from the sun either—but I do, and that fact annoys me.
“It’s not like it could hurt. Your sweater is pretty ruined,” he replies casually.
“No thanks to you,” I growl.
“You’re the one who was flying around the corner—”
“And you’re the one who was texting and not looking where he was going!” I counter, literally screaming because I can feel my blood pressure rising.
“The main thing is not to get excited. It could be much worse. At least the drink was cold. Here let me help,” he says and I swear I think he’s almost laughing. He moves his hands down to gather the remaining cream and ice chips from the drink. I jump back quickly.
“Will you get your hands off my boobs?”
“It’s not like I was trying to feel you up, lady. You’re the one whining because I wasn’t helping, so I thought I’d try to help,” he replies and this time I can hear frustration in his voice.
Who is he to get frustrated with me?
“Moron,” I growl. I slide my satchel off my shoulder, letting it fall to the ground.
“That’s a big bag. Maybe if you didn’t carry it around, you’d be able to move easier—”
I know my bag is big. It’s also heavy. It contains all of my personal favorites in foundation, eye shadows, and things that Roberta loves. The set provides quite a bit, but there are times I’m happier with my own stuff, especially when it comes to my friend.
“Shut up and hold this,” I mumble, really not wanting to hear his voice at this point. I yank my sweater off and throw it at him. He catches it against his chest, his eyes going round in surprise.
“Yeah. I don’t think that’s going to work,” he says. I look down at the tight camisole shirt I’m wearing. It reveals way too much skin, and cuts way too low on my breasts. The horrible part though is the darkened fabric where the latte soaked through. It literally looks like my boobs are leaking milk. I want to cry. There’s no help for it. Hopefully I’ll get on set and sneak into the wardrobe department before anyone can see me. I reach down and grab my satchel. I walk around Gavin, leaving him holding the now ruined sweater. “Don’t I know you?” he asks again, and I deserve a medal for not kicking him in the balls. I don’t reply and keep walking. “Hey wait! What about your sweater?” he yells after me.