Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 105679 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 528(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105679 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 528(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
“Ouch,” I say with genuine sympathy. Also, disgust. “What a dick.”
She spills a few more details, then nods to the elevators that still haven’t arrived. “These are the world’s slowest elevators.”
“Not the worst thing right now,” I say. I’m not really flirting. Just keeping up the volley. Besides, I don’t want to come across as aloof, like my ex said I was.
“Gives me time for some show and tell. Want to see a pic?”
My head spins from her rapid-fire chatter, but she seems to need to unload. “Definitely,” I say as the elevator lights up again.
She fishes around in her back pocket for her phone, but the box she’s juggling slides down an inch. I dart out an arm and grab the edge so it doesn’t fall. “Let me,” I offer, one hand still holding my food.
“Thank you. That has all my new idea pens in it,” she says.
“I’ll handle it with care.” I take the box, brushing her hand as I do, my thumb sliding over her fingers.
For a few seconds, her gaze strays down my body, but then she jerks her eyes back up. She holds her head high, almost regally. She’s very specifically looking anywhere but down at me.
Okaaay.
That’s odd, and maybe a sign she felt zero spark when we touched. But whatever. This isn’t a date.
She busies herself with her phone, unlocking, scrolling, then shoving it at me right as the elevator doors open for us.
My eyes pop as I scan the shot. “That’s a—”
Well, I know what that is. One of my favorite things to receive and also to direct. But while I’m not afraid to say blow job out loud—or to tell a woman how I like it—an older lady with crinkled eyes and silvery hair toddles out of the elevator, so I zip it. She ogles the shot, then rolls her eyes. “Kids today,” she mutters.
The brunette’s expression turns to oh shit. “That’s not—”
“They’re all afraid to show the full salami,” the older woman continues, shaking her head, then flicking a dismissive hand at the pic. “Just show some balls, for crying out loud.”
Chin up, she ambles on through the lobby, not the least bit self-conscious about her BJ photo feedback.
Closing my dropped jaw, I hook my thumb back at the lady. “Did that just happen?”
“You mean, did she just chastise our generation for not being…bawdier?”
“Evidently.” I stick out my arm to hold the elevator door open for the woman who quit her job to make a point. Which kind of makes her even hotter.
“Thanks,” she says as she steps inside. “You’re a gentleman.”
“Sometimes,” I say evasively. Not in bed. Not one bit.
I follow her in. “What floor?”
“Eight,” she says.
I punch that button, then pause before I hit the penthouse one, hoping she doesn’t think I’m a douchey prick for living on the top floor. I’m renting it from my buddy. I don’t need strings in real estate or romance.
“Penthouse, I bet,” she says, and when I turn to meet her face, there’s a sly smile spreading on her lips. One she erases in a flash. “I just mean, you look like a penthouse guy.”
A hint of pink tinges her creamy skin, spreading across her cheeks. I half want to ask what that’s about, but I also want to know what she thinks a penthouse guy looks like? I’m wearing jeans and a gray T-shirt from my college.
I don’t get to because she keeps going, filling the silence. “It’s a good thing. A compliment. That’s all. You look like you belong on the top floor.”
I decide to take the words at face value, pushing the button for my floor too. “Thanks. I like it there. There’s a rooftop garden from the prior tenants, so I’m learning to take care of…the veggies,” I say, since take care of the eggplants sounds like I jack it on the roof.
She sucks in a breath. “Gardening is great. I love gardening. My grandma loves to garden,” she says as the doors shut. “Cucumbers, carrots, asparagus.”
Maybe I should invite her to plant some veggies? Ask if she wants to water the fava beans or the cucumbers? Those all sound like cheesy come-on lines.
Hey, baby, come play with my cucumber.
But she’s still clutching her phone—the screen has locked now to an image of a little dog wearing a bandana—and I’m a big believer in finishing what I’ve started. I return to the topic of the first photo, although I’m curious about the fashionable dog too. “So you found out about the wedding via the world’s tackiest engagement photo?”
“Yes, and this pic is also…wait for it…the invitation to their wedding. And want to hear the real kicker?”
“I do.”
She pokes her finger against her chest, diverting my attention to—oh, hell.
Cleavage.
Tempting cleavage thanks to some kind of twisty neckline on a light blue flowered shirt.