Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 98023 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 490(@200wpm)___ 392(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98023 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 490(@200wpm)___ 392(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
He waggles his brows. “You want to do it again? For research, of course.”
I roll my eyes at him. “We don’t have time. I need to be at the lab. You need to be at practice. And it’s been proven in many research studies that men having sex before engaging in athletics weakens their leg muscles.”
“I’ll just lie back and let you ride me like a cowgirl, no leg muscles involved.”
Many dirty images float around inside my head, the teasing offer proving to be an actual temptation for my body. And trust me, I am tempted. But I am also Lexi Winslow, who has an important meeting with Dr. Blevin, and that is something that I refuse to be late to.
“I can’t.”
“But you want to,” he retorts, one sexy eyebrow raised in my direction.
“Sometimes we can’t always get what we want.”
He leans forward to press a cute kiss to my lips. “See, Lex, that’s not something I can go along with. When it comes to you, I want to give you everything you want.”
His words hold power, my body and mind reacting to them in ways I don’t quite understand.
“Consider it a rain check.” He presses another kiss to my lips before slowly setting me back onto my feet. He also hands me his bottle of cologne. “For your research.” He winks and heads back into the bathroom.
I stare down at the bottle of cologne, double-checking that I got the name of it right.
Tom Ford Tobacco Vanille
The urge to dissect this cologne’s components, to compare its data against the known effects of each scent on human attraction, flares so strongly it’s hard to ignore.
I set the bottle back on the dresser and quickly change into my clothes, brushing away thoughts of analysis and data points.
But just as I’m about to leave, I hesitate. I grab the T-shirt Blake let me borrow last night and spray a light mist of the cologne onto it.
Then, without a second thought, I shove it into my purse.
For research, of course.
Saturday, July 12th
Blake
Bonnie Boden looks exactly how I’d expect my mother to look after taking a last-minute trip to NYC to spend the day shopping and have lunch with me. Her hands are full of bags from various luxury stores, and her skin is tanned in the way you only get if you live in Southern California.
“Blake!” she greets with a huge smile when she spots me in the back of the fancy French restaurant she secured a reservation for yesterday when she was busy making her big New York plans. “Oh, it’s so good to see you, darling,” she says when she reaches the table, and I stand up like the gentleman she and my dad raised to take the numerous bags from her hands. “I swear, I don’t know how you tolerate this city on a daily basis.”
I nearly laugh. She’s so far removed from the daily toleration most New Yorkers deal with it isn’t even funny. She has a driver, a steady stream of money, and access to reservations at Maison Fleur, the kind of French restaurant where the lighting is soft, the linens are pristine, and every waiter wears a pressed black suit. It’s intimate without trying too hard—exactly the kind of place my mom loves.
Her light-brown hair is perfectly styled, not a strand out of place, and her cream pantsuit is unwrinkled. She adjusts her oversized sunglasses, and her blue eyes are bright-eyed in a way that says she probably slept like first-class royalty on her red-eye flight here.
Hermès, Louis Vuitton, Cartier, the logos read like a who’s who of luxury brands as I set the bags under our table’s unoccupied side.
“How are you?” she says, leaning forward to press two European-style kisses to my cheeks.
“I’m good, Mom.” I pull out her chair for her to sit down and don’t even bother asking her how she’s doing because I know it will lead to a lengthy rant about whatever inconveniences she’s faced in the past eight hours.
Once she’s comfortable in her seat, I sit back down in mine across the table. A menu is already in her hands, and it’s not long before she’s gesturing for a server to come over to our table.
I give him my order—a steak and vegetable combo—and my mom goes into her usual diatribe of asking him a hundred questions about the menu.
I love my mom. Really, I do. But I also know she’s an acquired taste for most people. She’s bossy and particular and direct. Not to mention, she was born and raised with a silver spoon in her mouth, paralegaling in her early days as a gateway to marrying a lawyer.
And land one, she did.
Both of my parents are great in their own right, even if they’re a little too much when they’re together. I’ve always had a good, close relationship with my mom, and when it comes to advice—whether about friends or girlfriends—she’s never steered me wrong.