Total pages in book: 30
Estimated words: 28024 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 140(@200wpm)___ 112(@250wpm)___ 93(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 28024 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 140(@200wpm)___ 112(@250wpm)___ 93(@300wpm)
Me: For your dress.
Wife-to-be: Oh. That’s really sweet, Jordan, but don’t go to too much trouble. The color doesn’t matter.
Of course it did. I wanted her to love her dress, not only so she felt beautiful, but because it would always be a reminder of our first date. I also requested that the designer make the dress easy to come off. But Wrenley didn’t need to know that.
Me: That’s for me to decide, baby. Now, what color?
Wife-to-be: Purple.
Perfect. I shot an email off to the designer, then closed my laptop and stood from my desk. Clay was out, so I opened a drawer and pulled out a glossy magazine. If he knew I was hiding a copy of Suits and Stilettos, he’d give me endless shit about it. But it wasn’t the book itself that was the reason for secreting it away. It was because I wasn’t ready to share. There was a spread on a new fashion line for curvy women, and Wrenley was one of the models. It didn’t matter that she was wearing suits, jeans, and sweaters, I didn’t want him ogling my girl.
Taking the magazine and my phone with me, I grabbed a beer from the fridge and wandered out to the living room. I plopped down on the couch and took a swig of my drink before setting it on the end table, then I swung my feet up and stretched out on the cushions.
I stared at my favorite picture of my girl for a few minutes before the need to talk to her had me picking up my phone and sending her a text.
Me: Favorite fruit?
Wife-to-be: Pineapple. You?
Me: Strawberries.
Me: Any tattoos?
Wife-to-be: No. I’ve thought about it, though.
Interesting…
Me: Favorite hobby?
Wife-to-be: I did a lot of photography in high school and really loved it. My parents even saved up to buy me a brand-new camera for graduation. But I’ve been too busy to keep up with it since then, so it’s been sitting on a shelf for the last year.
My fingers hovered over the keys as I absorbed what she’d said. Since Wrenley worked at Daniel, I had assumed she was at least in her early twenties. But technically, she could be under twenty-one since she was only a hostess. If I was reading her text right, the gap between our ages was a lot bigger than I’d assumed.
I decided not to beat around the bush.
Me: How old are you, Wrenley?
Three dots hovered, then disappeared, then hovered again.
Wife-to-be: I turned 19 a couple of months ago.
Well, shit. I was nine fucking years older than her. Was she too young for me? I dismissed the thought as soon as it flitted through my brain. I could be twice her age and still wouldn’t give her up.
Me: Favorite movie?
Neither of us brought our ages up again.
Three weeks.
Wrenley would be home in three damn weeks.
After spending the last couple of days getting to know her, I wanted to be with her more and more every day. Three weeks seemed like an eternity. We’d texted for a while, but then we’d graduated to phone calls, and I’d loved hearing her husky bedroom voice every day. Even if it did mean waking up every night with a rock-hard, aching cock and covered in sweat.
I was just getting ready to leave the gym when she sent me a text.
Wife-to-be: My dad told me another one! What happens when football players go blind?
I rolled my eyes but couldn’t help grinning at how adorable she was.
Me: What?
Wife-to-be: A referee!
I laughed out loud, drawing a few eyes, but I didn’t care. My focus was on my girl. The day she arrived home, she sent me a corny football joke that her father had told her. Apparently, she caught the bug because she’d sent me another one last night and again earlier today.
Since I was cleaning up my stuff, I put in my earbuds and called her.
“Corny as fuck, babe. However…it’s not so far from the truth,” I teased, making her giggle.
“That’s what my dad said.” Her tone was full of mirth, and I pictured her beautiful smile, making my chest ache. “I’ll try to get them all out of my system by the time I get home.”
“Don’t do that,” I argued playfully. “I think you’re fucking adorable.”
Her comment reminded me of something that had come up today, though.
“Do you need a ride from the airport?” I asked as I put the last of my workout gear into a gym bag. “I wanted to be there to pick you up, but I just found out I have a fucking team meeting right when you land.” Which I was seriously pissed about. “I can send my driver.”
“You don’t have to do that, Jordan. I’ll just take a cab. But you can pick me up the night of the ball.”