Total pages in book: 153
Estimated words: 153935 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 770(@200wpm)___ 616(@250wpm)___ 513(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 153935 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 770(@200wpm)___ 616(@250wpm)___ 513(@300wpm)
A second later, I’m actually a little mortified. My face heats, no doubt giving away the fact that I’m not as confident as my words.
What’s gotten into me?
Discussing long hoses with my egomaniac boss?
He manages a tight smile, then places his hand over my menu and pushes it back to the table.
Uh-oh.
“A woman I hired several EAs before you used to read similar paperbacks. There’d always be a guy in fire coveralls on the cover, jacket unbuttoned, chest bare, helmet clenched in his fist, glistening with sweat.” His voice is low, earnest, and he sounds kind of adorably clueless.
I snort. “Your point? Are you picking on romance readers or what?”
“Hardly. I’ll be the first in line to defend anyone’s choice in entertainment, considering the publishers we’ve run very lucrative marketing for,” he says, pausing to sip his ice-cold water. I’m dumbstruck, hating how my eyes stick to his face, his throat, as he swallows. “Here’s my point—the guys in those books are usually veterans, too, aren’t they?”
I glare. “I wouldn’t know. I think so. I’ve only read a few books about firemen.”
In truth, I’m more of a paranormal romance or family saga girl. Give me a hot vampire with glowing eyes and a silver tongue, and an attitude so horrible you can’t help but fall for—
Oof. Never mind.
But Heron seems to be obsessing over this fireman theme. Why?
That reminds me. I need to finish my bulk order. So I slide my phone out of my purse and pull up Mom’s author page again, clicking on her latest offering, and add a couple dozen copies to my cart.
The waitress comes up. “Are you ready to order?”
“I am. If he’s not, he can starve—”
Magnus smirks at me and closes his menu. “I’m ready.”
“I’ll have a peach Bellini and a steak. Rare. With fries?”
“Sorry. No fries on the menu this evening.”
“Baked potato then,” I say with a nod. “Load it up with everything.”
“Wonderful.” She taps my order into the iPad and looks at Heron. “And for you?”
“Lobster ravioli and a top-shelf bourbon. Surprise me.”
“Excellent choices.” The server looks back at me. “I’ll be right back with your drinks. Sorry it’s taking so long, we’re a tad short-staffed tonight.”
I smile. “No problem.”
I train my gaze back on Mag as she disappears to the next table.
“I’d kill for a drink right now,” I say.
“Lucky for you, Miss Bristol, she’s already bringing you one. I see your taste in liquid nectar rivals your love of coffee sweet enough to strip paint,” he says, lifting the other glass at his side.
“How hard is what you’re drinking?” I ask, betting the bourbon he ordered will be the fourth or fifth drink of the night. The vampire-freak in front of me has to unwind somehow, right?
“It’s tea,” he grunts. “Some sort of mango-flavored stuff from Hawaii.”
“I need a drink,” I repeat, draining the rest of my small water glass. “The massage therapist wasn’t kidding about feeling dried out.”
“Are you saying you want my tea?” He quirks an eyebrow.
“You’re offering?” When he doesn’t answer, I reach across the table and take it. I swallow a huge gulp and push it back at him, wrinkling my nose. “God. Use sugar. I didn’t think it was possible to make mango-anything so flat.”
He studies me. “You know, I’ve had a lot of EAs over the years—”
“Yeah, I know. You’re hard to work for.”
“Perhaps.” He lifts his eyebrows slowly like he’s truly considering my words. Shocking. “But of all the many things I’ve complained about them doing, drinking my tea was never one of them.”
I shrug.
“So we’ve established you’re a book snob who’s very English major-y,” he says, this lawyerly edge in his tone like he’s laying out a case. “I asked you about the fireman books earlier because I have something in common with them.”
“You? I doubt it.”
He shrugs, his big shoulders rippling at his sides. “Remember, you asked.”
Uh, I didn’t, but...but I’m instantly silenced as he slowly rolls up his shirt sleeve. The fabric pushes up over a very defined, sculpted, powerful bicep, revealing a purple-and-black semper fi tattoo.
Whoa.
I’ve seen similar military tattoos but never in that color scheme and it’s awesome.
Not to mention the way his muscles bulge under the ink, sending my mind jetting off on fantasies of all the hell he—we—could raise with those arms.
It’s not what I expected. Am I still back in my room dreaming? The other dream the masseuse woke me from rattles my brain.
Yikes.
I need to get out of here before I’m lost in dirty fantasies with Magnus Heron.
That’s not the kind of complicated I need, no sirree.
But since there’s no easy way to leave without making it obvious I’m fleeing, I try to screw my head back on.
“Oh. Nice. I wouldn’t have pegged you as a veteran. When did you serve?” I ask, forcing disinterest into my voice.