Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 78313 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 392(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78313 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 392(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
Here’s what I do know . . . when I looked across the VIP lounge just in time to watch Ian spill a drink all over himself, I felt alive.
For the first time in a long time.
I don’t know what it was exactly. Perhaps just sheer delight that someone so good-looking isn’t perfect after all.
Or maybe it was the fact that after hours spent in front of a computer screen staring at names and numbers, I needed the visceral reminder that I’m dealing with real people in the real world.
I’d told myself that I’d just take a second to apologize for my unprofessional behavior that afternoon in his office, and then I went and topped that with a whole other layer of unprofessionalism.
If my boss found out . . . if anyone found out . . .
Bye-bye, FBI.
No recommendation letter from Steve, and I’d have to wait who knows how long for another opportunity like this one.
Not that I’m wishing for Ian to be guilty. Quite the opposite. It’s just . . .
Well, I’m all jumbled, in case you couldn’t tell.
I’m nearly to the door when fingers wrap around my arm, pulling me back around. I lose my balance a little bit and bump awkwardly into Ian’s chest.
He keeps me from stumbling, but the contact only makes me feel more unsteady.
“You all right?” he asks.
Damn him. He seems genuinely concerned, and that makes it so much harder to walk away.
I mean, it’s not like I want to have a fling with the guy. I’m not the kind of girl who hooks up with guys like Ian.
But . . . I like him. I like him a lot.
He makes me laugh, and he challenges me, and . . .
“I’ve got to go.”
“I’ll help you get a cab.”
“Shit,” I mutter. “I can’t leave Gabby.” I pull out my phone and text her.
“I’ll walk you back to her table,” he says as I type. “Or back to mine. Or we can talk here.”
I push at his chest in exasperation. “Don’t you get it? I’m SEC. You’re suspected of insider trading. We can’t do this.”
His other hand comes up, catches my other elbow. “You don’t have to cushion the blow, Lara. If you don’t want to be seen with me because of the stain, you can just tell me. I can take it.”
His voice is light and teasing, and a laugh bubbles out before I can stop it, my head dropping forward in defeat. Only he’s right there, so my forehead rests on his chest. I mean to pull back, but his hand moves from my arm, slipping under my hair to cup the back of my neck. He squeezes lightly, as though wanting to take away some of my tension. And maybe he can, because I let myself stay still, just for a moment, and I know it’s crazy, but when I pull away, I feel a little bit steadier.
“Thanks.” My throat is dry, and I clear it, try again. “Thank you.”
His hands fall away. “You’re welcome.”
Our gazes lock and hold for a long moment, and I find myself wishing so badly that things could be different. That I wasn’t SEC. That he wasn’t Wall Street. That there was no investigation. That the stakes weren’t my dream career of the FBI versus his career and reputation on the line.
I wish he wasn’t a notorious womanizer. I wish I knew how to flirt . . .
My phone buzzes, and I glance down. It’s Gabby telling me that she’s going home with her ex but that they’re happy to share a cab back to the apartment to drop me off first.
Third wheel. Just what I don’t need right now.
I text her to tell her I’m fine—that I’ll get a cab on my own.
I drop my phone back in my purse and look up at Ian. He smiles, but it’s a sad smile, like he knows what I’m thinking and he understands. Because he feels the same.
“You good?” he asks quietly.
“Better, yeah.”
“You think people will recognize us.”
I lift a shoulder. Yeah.
“Say no more.” Ian beckons for my purse.
I reluctantly hand it over. “I might have a Tide pen in there, but it won’t make a dent in your stain.”
“You know, most women bring one of those small envelope-style purses to a club, not a suitcase,” he says, rummaging through my stuff.
“Well, in case it wasn’t terribly obvious, I’m not exactly experienced at the club thing. What are you doing?” I ask in a panic as he pushes aside a tampon.
He pulls out my sunglasses case and waggles it at me as he hands my bag back.
“If you’re checking to see if they’re designer, I assure you they’re knockoff.” I stop short of telling him that some of us make a five-figure salary, not a seven-figure one like him.