Total pages in book: 114
Estimated words: 112701 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 564(@200wpm)___ 451(@250wpm)___ 376(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 112701 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 564(@200wpm)___ 451(@250wpm)___ 376(@300wpm)
She bites her cheek. “Why?”
I don’t want to lie to Lily, but this is her birthday. I’m not about to ruin it by admitting that I was wrong, and Asher does, in fact, have feelings for me.
“Work stuff. I’ll tell you about it next Taco Tuesday.”
She bobs her head, grimacing. “I need to go home. My head hurts.”
“You’re leaving?” Asher asks, walking up behind us.
“Birthday girl is out,” I explain. “Can you make sure she gets home? I have an early day tomorrow.”
“Sure.” He shrugs.
I grab my purse and stand to leave, eager to escape before anything can get weird. Asher’s hand darts out, grabbing my arm.
I freeze, sending a prayer up to heaven that he doesn’t go where I’m afraid he’s going.
“Can we talk? Like tomorrow night, maybe?”
This needs to happen sooner rather than later. It can’t be avoided.
I take a deep breath. “Yeah. We can plan on it for now.”
Tomorrow night, I’ll have to break my best friend’s heart.
Shit.
The next morning, I’m entrenched with phone calls and meetings with our client about how the launch project is going. I barely remember to come up for air at noon and head to the break room for some much-needed caffeine. I successfully pour myself a coffee without spilling it and turn around to see Charles in the doorway.
“Look at you mastering client relations and coffee pouring. Too bad the latter is not available for an increase in salary, Ms. Bennett.”
“You know, it’s weird. For such a picky-ass Brit, you are funny at times.”
“Picky? Well, I have been called worse.”
“What’s your day been like? Mine has been too busy, and I’m ready for a bottle of wine at home tonight.”
Ducking out the door to make sure no one is listening, he leans closer and whispers, “Any chance you would want company with that wine?”
“Are you saying you want to come over, Mr. Cavendish? Is there a project you would like to work on?”
“Very much so. I think there are sheets and sheets of data analytics to pore over, don’t you?”
“Data. Hmmm. Not the D-word I was thinking of . . .” I trail off as I look at the lust building in his blue eyes. “I’ll text you my home address and see you tonight. Around say eight?”
“Abso-fucking-lutely,” he says with a wink as he turns and walks away.
A wink.
God help me. I’m going to lose my heart over a wink.
Ten minutes to eight and I can’t stop fussing. I keep looking in the mirror to make sure I look okay, and I spend an unnecessary amount of time cleaning the apartment. Anything to keep me preoccupied while this nervous energy practically chokes me.
“Hello, love,” Charles says when I open the door. He leans in and kisses me, handing me a big bunch of white hydrangeas.
“Oh, you are very good at this whole buttering me up thing,” I say and go to put the flowers in a vase.
“You look beautiful,” he says, smiling down at me before his eyes wander around the room. “Nice place.”
“Thank you. It’s small, but I really like it.”
“You’ve done a lot with the space. You're bloody brilliant with décor.”
I blush under his compliment. “It’s home.” I shrug. “Want the ten-second tour?”
“Please.”
I take him around, showing him each space, and telling him about all the updates I’ve requested from management. It takes minutes, and I have no doubt that his place is something else entirely, but you’d never know it. His eyes are wide and his smile genuine as he takes in every space.
“And that’s it. I’m assuming you live in some fancy townhouse,” I say as we settle down on the sofa together in the living room.
He laughs. “What makes you say that?”
“Oh, you know, you’re only the CEO of a huge advertising and marketing firm. I mean, no big deal.”
“I have a nice flat. But it’s not huge.” He shrugs one shoulder. “Maybe I’ll invite you over someday,” he teases.
“Maybe I’ll decide to feed you tonight.”
He laughs, throwing his head back. “I see how things are. Tit for tat.”
I make my way toward the kitchen. “Would you like some wine?”
“Please,” he calls back.
I quickly pour two glasses of Pinot Noir and head back to the loveseat, plopping down next to Charles.
“Exactly,” I say, taking a sip of wine. “This is nice, Charles.”
“What?” he asks, pulling me into his side.
“This. Us,” I explain. “It feels so normal.”
He’s very quiet, and for a moment, I wonder if I’m coming across as too pushy. We said slow, and he’s made it perfectly clear he’s not a dater.
“It’s just that we’ve experienced possibly the weirdest start to a relationship ever, and this bit of normality is actually quite welcome.”
“Quite,” he agrees. “We have done things rather backwards, haven’t we?”
I laugh. “Epic understatement.”
“I have a question.”
“Bloody hell. Why do I get the feeling I’m about to be interrogated?”