Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 98021 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 490(@200wpm)___ 392(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98021 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 490(@200wpm)___ 392(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
Her eyes light up. "Perfect. Thanks, Liam. Really."
I join her at the table.
"You don't want to help me find what I like?"
"Is this about sex?"
"Maybe."
"Whatever it is, yes."
"What if it's something freaky?"
"Especially if it's something freaky." I brush her hair behind her ear. "I want to be the only guy who's game."
"You mean that."
"Why wouldn't I?"
"I don't know. I'm not used to you this sincere."
"Me either."
She pours hot sauce on her eggs. Scoops them onto toast. Piles avocado on top of it.
Then she cuts a slice.
She's eating her toast with a fork and knife.
"What?" She stops mid bite. "You're giving me a look."
"Who eats toast with a fork?"
"Everyone if it's French toast."
"That's true."
"It's good this way. Try it." She picks up the hot sauce. Motions may I?
"Go for it."
She covers my eggs in hot sauce, then she takes a bite of her food, lets out a soft groan, follows it with a sip of tea and another groan.
Pure. Fucking. Torture.
"You're not eating," she says.
"Doing something better."
"Eat. Please."
Fuck, the way she says please. I need to hear it on her lips again.
I copy her technique. Cut a slice, bring it to my mouth, bite half.
Crisp toast, warm eggs, creamy avocado. And the hint of heat.
It's good.
Not the greatest meal in the world. But pretty fucking good. "Not bad."
She nods. "You do have skills."
I'm not the world's greatest cook. I wouldn't claim that. But I tired of living on pizza and take out after a semester at school. I learned enough to feed myself—for breakfast and dinners at home, at least—my sophomore year. "I know how to take care of myself."
"You do."
"You say it with surprise."
"You project a different image." She takes another bite. "On purpose, I think. But you sell it well."
"I don't get much fancier than this."
"It's good food. It doesn't need to be fancy."
"I keep forgetting that."
"You really think people like you because you're rich?" she asks.
"That might not be all they like about me. It might not be their favorite thing about me, but you've seen people. The way they act when they recognize my name. Or learn I'm a CFO. They're different."
"Even when you're in a suit?"
"More when I'm wearing jeans, yeah. But men in suits are a dime a dozen in the city."
She nods true. "Is it hard? Not knowing if people want you or your money?"
"Sometimes. I don't usually think of it that way."
"How do you think of it?"
"Everyone projects an image. We all have some choice in it. More, these days, with social media."
She nods.
"You wear combat boots and thick eyeliner."
"And the hair." She whips a purple strand.
"And the hair. People see you and they think bold, edgy, confident. Maybe a little intimidating. Which is what you want, right?"
"Partially."
"It's who you are. Just like I'm a rich asshole sometimes. But it can't begin to describe you. You're smart and thoughtful and willing to call people on their shit, even if it might hurt you. You're guarded, sure, but you know it. And when you let your guard down, fuck… your smile lights up the entire room."
Her cheeks flush.
"When you laugh, even if it's at me, not with me—it's the second best sound in the world."
"What's the best?"
My eyes flit to her chest.
"Oh. Right." Her blush deepens. "You say stupid things on purpose. Just to make me laugh."
"Of course."
"It's sweet. Obnoxious, sometimes, but sweet."
"I know."
She smiles. "You really do. You know who you are. You know what role you play."
I nod.
"But sometimes… sometimes I think you don't know, Liam. Sometimes I wonder if you see the guy I do. Or if you see the guy you try to convince everyone you are."
"Who do you see?"
"Someone loving, sweet, who will do anything for the people he loves, who wants intimacy and connection but can't bring himself to admit it."
"Is that what you want?"
She swallows hard. "Sometimes. I don't know. I don't want to get hurt."
"Who does?"
"Some people are better at it than others." She takes another bite. "I just… I do see you. I don't know what the fuck we're doing here, but I want you to know that. I see the guy you are. And I like him."
"I like you too."
"Is that where we are? High school crushes?"
"If you'll make out with me behind the bleachers."
She laughs.
"I missed out. All boys school."
"How did you survive?" She takes another sip of her tea. "An entire semester without sex."
"There were weekends off."
"Five whole days? Impossible."
"I made it five months."
"You really did?"
"You think I could lie under those circumstances?" I motion to the counter where she had me under her thumb. So to speak.
"Some guys will say anything."
"I'm not some guys."
"You're really not." She looks at me curiously, considering something. "Have you thought about this? Us?"
"No." I take a long sip of my coffee. Savor the sweet, creamy warmth. The domesticity.