Total pages in book: 24
Estimated words: 22555 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 113(@200wpm)___ 90(@250wpm)___ 75(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 22555 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 113(@200wpm)___ 90(@250wpm)___ 75(@300wpm)
“Hey,” he says, his eyes going wide. “You look nice.”
“Thanks.”
“Are you heading out?”
“No. I thought, I just…I was in the mood.” He waits for me to say more. But that’s all I have in me. “Yeah.”
“Okay.”
He moves on to pulling off his hoodie, accidentally lifting the bottom of his tee in the process. Such a nice slice of tanned skin and stomach. It’s good to know his body has lost none of the allure of this morning. The proof being that my loins are wide awake and giving him their full attention. He really is something. Then he smiles again and just looks at me. Like he’s waiting for me to make my next move. Considering how limited my moves are, this could be over quickly.
“Are you hungry?” I ask.
“I could definitely eat,” he chuckles.
“Great. That’s great.” I feel like I’m going to start fidgeting at any moment, so it’s probably best to begin the meal part of the plan.
Lena and Ev initially had plans for a three-course candlelit dinner. They even discussed hiring a violinist at one stage. But Anne wisely suggested keeping things low-key. Thank goodness. Best not to spook the poor man by springing a surprise formal date on him. Or put more pressure on me. Though I did light a couple of pillar candles because I like candles. I find their gentle light soothing after a long day.
I pull the platter of sushi out of the fridge and nod to the sofa. Glasses, napkins, plates, and a bottle of sake sit waiting on the coffee table. “We might as well be comfortable.”
“You’ve gone to some effort,” he says as he walks over to the sofa.
“Consider this your welcome dinner.” I follow and pour him a glass of sake.
“Okay. Thanks,” he takes it and starts to look a bit intense, which makes me more nervous.
“But don’t let it go to your head,” I blurt out. “Pop-Tarts are still on the menu for breakfast.”
Look at me go. Another whole sentence. This is where my practiced lines run out, however, and I have to start winging it. Yikes.
“I’ll look forward to it,” he takes a sip and then gives me a slow smile.
Holy shit. His smile and the way it lights his gaze makes me giddy. Like my heart is filled with heat and my rib cage has grown wings or something. I need to calm down and do some deep breathing. This is not love at first sight. It is like at first coffee. But it’s been a while since I felt anything similar. Hence my brain going into meltdown and my hormones running wild. Despite all of these distractions, I manage to carry the platter to the living room without tripping in the high heels. I would high-five myself if he wasn’t watching. We sit on the sofa and pick up the chopsticks. This is it. Our first ever meal together. Fingers crossed it isn’t our last.
“It was good of you to organize this,” he says. “Sushi is a favorite of mine.”
“Lena said you liked it.”
His brows draw down slightly. “She did, huh?”
“Yeah.” Not sure if mentioning her name is a good idea or not. But it’s done now. We focus on eating for a minute. My hands are only shaking a little from nerves. Perhaps I can pull this off after all. The girls suggested asking him lots of questions about himself. That I can do. “How did your first day in the studio go?”
“Good. I’ve worked with the guys a couple of times over the years. It’s nice to finally get to be the producer steering the process. What with them being one of my favorite bands and all,” he says. “Are you a music fan?”
“I played flute in my middle school band.”
“Flute is cool.”
“Lizzo has done a lot for positive flute representation in the media lately.”
He laughs. “She sure has.”
“But I like listening to music too.”
“What are some of your favorites?”
And that’s when it happens. My mouth is open and waiting. My chopsticks are tensed. And the salmon sashimi topped with pickled ginger, wasabi, and a dash of soy sauce somehow slips and goes into freefall. Though it doesn’t just fall, it slides down the front of my white silk shirt. Or Anne’s designer white silk shirt, as the case may be. This cool put-together version of me didn’t even last five minutes in the real world.
I could almost cry. Seriously.
Dean passes me a wad of napkins. Not that there’s anything to be done. Leather pants might be wipe clean, but the rest is going to take some work.
“What can I do to help?” he asks.
“The shirt isn’t even mine. It probably cost a fortune,” I moan and collect the remains of the sashimi from the polished wooden floor. “Can you look up how to get soy sauce stains out of silk, please?”