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)
Lara looks up at me, her blue eyes unguarded without her glasses. “So you don’t believe them? You don’t think I’m here in hopes you’ll admit something about J-Conn?”
I step closer, and, hooking a finger beneath her chin, I tilt her face up to mine. “I don’t think we should even mention the word J-Conn for the rest of the night.” I brush my mouth against hers. “Deal?”
In response, her hand winds around my neck, pulling me down, and what I’d intended to be a quick peck immediately becomes heated.
Normally I like to be in control, but I love the way Lara kisses me. I let her do it her way, both hungry and a little bit shy. It’s perfect. Everything from the tentative brush of her tongue against mine to the way she cups my cheek makes me feel like this is the only kiss that’s ever mattered.
She pulls back and shoves the wine bag at my chest. “Here. Never come to someone else’s house empty-handed and all that.”
I reach into the bag and pull out what I’d assumed was a bottle of wine. I grin when I see it’s not. “Campari.” It’s one of the main ingredients in a Negroni.
“And . . .” She digs through her enormous purse until she comes up with a bottle of . . .
Stain remover.
“Just in case,” she says, handing it to me and patting my chest before she walks all the way into my apartment. “It looks different from the other night.”
“I rearranged to make room for the bar,” I say, setting the Campari next to Sabrina’s flowers. “This is how it normally looks.”
“It’s very . . . manly,” she says, looking around.
I pull a bottle of champagne out of the fridge. “Did you not see the prissy little pillow on the couch?”
She leans forward to look at the generic pillow in question. “It’s hardly homemade needlepoint.”
“Needle-what?” I ask, coming toward her with a champagne glass.
“My point exactly.” She accepts the glass, and I clink mine to hers in a wordless toast.
She drops her gaze to my shirt and tilts her head. “It’s black.”
I glance down at my black shirt. “So?”
“And there’s no tie.”
“Your observational skills are top-notch tonight, McKenzie,” I say with a smirk.
“It’s just . . . this is the first time I’ve seen you in anything other than a suit. I like it.”
I touch her hair, running my fingers through the silky strands. “Hmm. All this time I’ve been trying to get you to not hate my guts, and I could have just ditched the dress shirt.”
“I didn’t hate your guts.”
I give her a knowing look. “You wanted me to drop dead that first day on the sidewalk. Admit it.”
“You were a jerk. Admit that.”
“I was a jerk,” I say without hesitation.
She gives an exasperated laugh. “You’re very difficult to argue with, you know that?”
“So don’t argue. Sit. Let’s discuss what I should feed you,” I say, gesturing toward the barstools.
She hops onto the sleek black seat and picks up a napkin from the counter. “Sabrina?”
I roll my eyes. “Obviously. Now . . . sushi, Italian, Chinese, or other?” I say, sliding my cell phone across the counter where I’ve pulled up the food-delivery app.
She bites her lip. “How do we feel about pizza?”
The woman shows up in jeans, carrying Campari, and wants to order pizza.
Where has she been all my life?
“I feel good about pizza,” I say, pulling my phone back and typing in the name of a place around the corner.
I feel pretty damn good about you, too.
26
LARA
Week 4: Friday Night
“Okay, we’ve exhausted favorite color, favorite movies, fought over whether or not mushrooms should be banished from the world . . .” Ian tops off my wineglass. “There’s only one more vital piece of information left to be exchanged.”
I pick a piece of rogue pepperoni off my plate and nibble it. “Birthdays?” I say at the same time Ian says, “Worst lay you’ve ever had?”
I nearly choke on the pepperoni. “That is not a first-date conversation.”
“Isn’t it? Sorry, I’m new to this. I’ll try again . . . worst lay you’ve ever had?”
I laugh. “I’m not answering that.” Mike Lanter, junior year of college.
“But—”
“Next question,” I say with a smile, enjoying his cockiness.
“All right,” he says, sitting back in his chair. “What’s going to happen with the FBI application?”
My smile drops. “I’ll answer the other question. My most awkward sexual encounter was—”
“Come on, Lara,” he says, reaching out and grabbing my hands when I move to clear our empty plates. “We have to talk about this.”
“There’s nothing to talk about. My boss said he’d write me a letter of recommendation once I had a big win under my belt. You being guilty was supposed to be that win. You weren’t. End of story.”
“It’s a pretty shitty story,” he says, rubbing his thumb along the inside of my wrist. “You should get the letter of rec because you did a good job.”