Total pages in book: 22
Estimated words: 20305 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 102(@200wpm)___ 81(@250wpm)___ 68(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 20305 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 102(@200wpm)___ 81(@250wpm)___ 68(@300wpm)
The way he looks at me…I almost can’t describe it. I feel instantly as though I have someone in my corner, someone who actually cares about me. His eyes are filled with compassion, and I know in my heart that I can trust him. I instantly want to pour my soul out to him because I know he would never betray me.
“Well…” I take a deep breath and go over precisely what happened. And throughout my entire explanation, Grant simply looks and listens, never interrupting, never indicating anything but belief with his eyes. Once I’m finished, he shakes his head and sighs.
“I’m sorry, Nikki. Reed never should have behaved like that. I know it may not help, but I’d like to apologize to you. A girl like you never should have had to have gone through something like that.”
“It’s all right,” I reply. “To be honest, I wasn’t really that thrilled about dating him anyway.”
Grant smiles. “Oh?”
“Yeah.” I shrug. “I was just sort of…well, to be honest, I don’t really even know why I was with him.”
He looks at me for a moment, almost as if examining me, as if he’s thinking about what to say next. I shift uncomfortably. Did I say something wrong?
“What did you say you were doing before he showed up?” Grant asks. “You were writing something?”
“Oh, yeah,” I laugh nervously. “That’s nothing. Just something I do as a…hobby.”
“May I see it?”
I freeze.
“See…my writing?”
He nods. “That’s right.”
“Oh, I…no one’s ever asked to see my writing before.” Panic starts to spread within me like I’ve been injected with an ice slushy. I wait for him to give me an out – say he’s just messing with me or something, but he doesn’t. He nods and smiles earnestly.
“Really? That’s terrible. I’d absolutely love to read your writing, Nikki.”
“Oh…well, okay. Yeah, I could e-mail you something—”
“No, no. I mean now.”
“Now?” My panic spreads, warming and filling my cheeks with blush.
“Yes, now!” he chuckles. “Come on, go get your laptop. Let me see this masterpiece you’re working on.”
Grant pats me gently on the knee, but my nerves are already on high alert, and that combined with his touch is enough to send me rocketing to my feet.
“Oh! Um, okay!” I stammer. “I-I can do that I guess!”
“Great.” Grant smiles as I turn and quickly pace back to my bedroom. I’m burning up. Every inch of my body is on fire, and as I pass the full-length mirror leaning against my wall, I realize I also look like an absolute train wreck. Like a tornado picked me up and threw me three states and I crawled back through the door just before Grant arrived.
As fast as possible, I finger-comb my hair and swap my beat-up sweatshirt for a slightly nicer sweater, grab my laptop, and head back to the living room where Grant is reclining on the couch looking like he just came back from a photoshoot.
“I have to warn you,” I say as I take my seat beside him. “It’s just a short story, it’s not edited, and it was never written for anyone else to see.”
“Don’t worry about it.” He smiles, taking the laptop from me. “I bet it’s great.”
He lifts the top, and it opens to my Word document. As his eyes begin to scan the page, I start to panic.
“It’s about a little girl whose dad died and how she has to move schools and how hard it is without him there,” I blurt out. “Do you want a drink? Because I’m going to get some water.”
“Sure.” Grant smiles. “Water would be fine. Thank you.”
My whole body buzzing, I scurry away to the kitchen and pour two glasses of water at the sink. Then I close my eyes and lean against the counter and take several deep breaths and try to calm myself.
Is this really happening?
That’s the question I keep repeating over and over in my mind as I stand there and picture Grant Whitney, the man I’ve been lusting over since I first saw him, sitting in my living room with my laptop, reading my latest short story.
“I bet it’s great.” That’s what he said. But what if it isn’t? What if he hates it? What if he finishes, closes my laptop, and tells me I should never write again? Tells me I have a better chance of winning the lottery while being struck by lightning and then leaves? I shrivel at the thought and nearly drop his glass of water as I pick it up and turn to go back to the living room.
I stop in the doorway and stare. Good God, he’s so fucking hot. He’s like an absolute vision of masculinity, sitting there in his suit like he owns the place, my laptop on his lap, his gorgeous eyes scanning the screen as he goes over my story. Just being this close to him has me on fire and my mind shuffling through countless filthy fantasies I could only dream this man would act out with me.