Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 72655 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 363(@200wpm)___ 291(@250wpm)___ 242(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72655 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 363(@200wpm)___ 291(@250wpm)___ 242(@300wpm)
“Pet rats,” I correct him.
“Ahh.”
“You think someone would raise money to help wild rats?” Maybe someone should. Wild rats probably need love as well.
He shrugs. He should not look so hot when he does that. It’s just literally bone and gristle lifting up, but on him and in the divine black dress shirt, it looks tantalizingly delicious.
The next most scrumptious flavor of pudding? Magical, Marvelous, Miraculous Mont Montfield. That is exactly the kind of wrong thought process that has been going through my brain on repeat for the past however many days since I first met this man. I’m not going to admit knowing how many days it’s been, though.
“Nothing wrong with helping wild rats.”
“Hmm.” Damn it, he did not just go there in his mind the way I went there in mine. “It’s for pet rats. They end up in rescue too, just like other small animals.”
“And when is this lovely social event?” he asks.
“Friday night.”
“As in, tomorrow?”
So much for hoping he’d get the days wrong. He just stands there looking scrumptious and innocent and hot and nice. Everyone here is singing his praises for being such an amazing, caring boss. A boss who wants to give back. Literally. He’s handing over all the shares to his employees, and he’ll keep the same amount everyone here has. We’re all owners. It will be official soon. Everyone here got a raise as well, and when the restructuring is completed, everyone will feel like their job matters even more than they already knew it mattered. Plus, health insurance is getting a big boost and becoming incredibly comprehensive.
“Yes, tomorrow,” I say.
“And this would be at what time?”
“Seven.”
“Seven on the dot, or I come and pick you up at seven and find that you’ve already left and the event is nearly over, and we only have five minutes together to get down to very important business?”
Very important business sounds way too sexy.
“It starts at seven, but you can’t pick me up. I don’t want you to pick me up.” The annoying grade school teacher in me taunts me on the can’t part. I’m not sure why anyone would choose to harp endlessly on that one correction, though. Also, there is such a thing as can’t.
Yeah, I went there.
“I can meet you there then.”
“Hmmpf,” I harrumphed.
“A question sheet isn’t going to cut it. If we can’t even stand to be in the same room together, it’s going to be very obvious.”
“You showing up with all my friends is going to make obvious something I don’t want to be made obvious. It will get back to my family, then it will get back here, and then it will be everywhere like a deluge of horror.”
“We could go somewhere private. I could meet you there after the fundraiser.”
“Private? No thanks. That sounds like a good way to get murdered.”
I think I’ve finally exceeded the vast levels of patience he pretends to have. He didn’t have much in the restaurant the night he found out I wasn’t Genevieve. Granted, I was a terrible date, so he had a right to be surprised and annoyed.”
“Crab legs.” It’s the first thing I think of.
Those crab legs were divine. Maybe even more divine than Mont’s legs. Not that I look at them. Seriously, I don’t. I don’t know the first thing about the shape of his posterior region, and I refuse to call it an ass. Calling it an ass makes me sound like I do know all about it. Ass gets fixed in the mind. Ass means hard-as-rock butt cheeks in dress pants that always sit with the exact amount of epic assness.
“You’d like to go for crab legs?”
“Yes?” I suppose that shouldn’t sound like a question. It’s not the crab legs I’m unsure of. It’s the word like in that sentence. Would I like to go for them? Yes. Alone. Even if being alone with a giant pile of crustacean appendages piled on a plate might look questionably silly.
Alas, a deal is a deal.
“Great. I know this amazing place.”
“Can it not be a five-star restaurant? I don’t have the budget for that,” I tell him.
“I’m paying. Obviously.”
“There’s nothing obvious about it. You don’t have to pay for me. You’re holding up your end of the deal, and I can hold up mine. I can pay my own way. So, if you can find a budget crab legs restaurant that isn’t going to poison us—because sometimes, budget can also mean eight days old and left out in the hot sun to age like not-so-fine old cheese—then I’m fine with that. Even if we were dating for real, I wouldn’t let you pick up my tab. At least not all the time. I don’t believe that’s right.”
“But you’re the one doing me a favor.”
“This isn’t a favor. It’s a deal. You do your part, and I do mine. Your part lasts indefinitely when it comes to this company, and mine lasts for another month, three weeks, and two days. Roughly. Give or take a day or two in there since some months have more or less days.”