Total pages in book: 115
Estimated words: 109608 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 548(@200wpm)___ 438(@250wpm)___ 365(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 109608 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 548(@200wpm)___ 438(@250wpm)___ 365(@300wpm)
Bourbon won’t do me any favors, but it should get me over the hump of midweek.
I take a sip, letting the amber liquid flow. It tricks my mind, making me relax before it hits the system. It’s been a week, and it’s only Wednesday.
Leisa’s orders were to take the rest of the night off. I chose to do the same, to unclutter my brain and not think about work. That left my mind to wander to the only other thing keeping me busy.
Holy shit.
Tuesday.
I stand the moment I see her. The Bergdorf shopper promised she wouldn’t be disappointed with the dress. When she strips off her coat, revealing the black dress that hugs her waist, heels that not only advertise her five-five, five-six height but also show off those incredible legs leading to her curvy hips, I’m not disappointed either. Not that I could be with her.
The host takes her coat and hands her a check before pointing at the back of the restaurant where I’m standing, gawking like a fourteen-year-old boy. Jesus. Pull yourself together, Westcott.
You’d think I’d never seen a beautiful woman before.
Is that what Tuesday is?
Dumb question. Of course, she is.
But am I going to use that as a baseline like she’s nothing more than a pretty face?
So far, she’s so much more.
I can’t go there, though. I won’t twist this relationship. Although I’ve always had a deep appreciation and weakness for beautiful women, Tuesday and I are platonic, and I intend to keep it that way.
With her hair hanging over one shoulder when she approaches, her smile grows when she sees me. “Platonic,” I mutter, gulping from my glass in a feeble attempt to remind myself, but I think it might be too late.
“Hello,” I say, then clear my throat from the frog that seems to have settled in it. Puberty was a bitch the first time around. I don’t intend to repeat it.
With a sweet laugh, she leans in as if she’s going to kiss my cheek. Is that what we’re doing? Air-kissing when we see each other?
She backs away with a look of mortification, sucking in her breath and her gaze away. Her hand flies out as if she can shoo the air of awkwardness away. “I don’t know why I did that. I’m—”
I catch her hand, stopping her words. “Don’t worry about it. Maybe it’s a memory reflex, something you did before.”
“I feel like that’s all my life is now—something I did before, a life I’m not privy to anymore.”
“Well, if it gives you any comfort, you haven’t forgotten how to rhyme.” Damn, I probably shouldn’t have said—
“Very funny, Westcott.” I also win a grin from her, even if just a little one.
With a shrug, I chuckle dryly, still holding her hand. “I try.”
She’s a paradox of a woman, as complicated as her coffee order. She changed from the demanding woman at the coffee shop to smiling after being attacked and injured.
When her eyes go to our bonded hands, I let go of her and tuck mine into my pocket, glad for the bustle in the restaurant. It keeps her from hearing me gulp nervously. You know, like I’m that kid back in school.
Her scent travels the small space between us, and I take a deep breath. Floral mixed with vanilla. She’s making me rethink my stance on our relationship and keeping it platonic. Platonic doesn’t begin to describe my thoughts while looking at her in that dress.
Trying to be subtle is fruitless, so I defer my attention. “Drink?” I offer, forcing my eyes to the bar and taking my glass in hand.
“I’m thinking I shouldn’t just yet.” Touching her head, she says, “Still healing.”
“Right. I almost forgot.” Why am I acting like this? Fucking hell. It’s not a date.
“And interestingly enough, I guess I do drink since I don’t seem opposed to the idea in the general sense.”
“I suppose you do.” I hold up my glass. “Do you mind—”
“No, not at all. Go ahead. If I thought I could drink, I’d order a glass of champagne.” Her eyes go wide, and her smile cracks her expression. “I like champagne,” she confesses as if she’s won an Olympic medal. “I’ve been keeping mental notes when I recognize a piece of my puzzle, hoping it helps me figure out who I am just in case my memory never returns.”
“The doctor said you might not get your memory back?”
“No,” she says, shaking her head. “I think it’s more of a backup plan to help me cope while I’m recovering.”
She’s so easy in her words, so sure of herself for someone who claims to be the opposite. Tuesday may not remember her past, but she knows who she is in the moment. That’s more than most people can say.
“Ah. That makes sense.”
The host comes up behind her. Holding menus at her side, she says, “Your table’s ready, Mr. Westcott.” She tilts her head away from the bar. “Follow me.”