Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 89898 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 449(@200wpm)___ 360(@250wpm)___ 300(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89898 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 449(@200wpm)___ 360(@250wpm)___ 300(@300wpm)
“A cemetery?” I laugh. “Not that I had kayaking in mind, but definitely not a cemetery.”
“And maybe that’s why you need to go.”
I lift a brow. “So I can tell people I saw a cemetery in Savannah?”
“So you can broaden your horizons.”
“Listen, Mr. Tour Guide—I’ve done more things on this vacation that are out of the ordinary for me than I’ve ever done. I think we can skip the cemetery.”
We exchange an easy grin as Lola walks by. She doesn’t stop to check on us, and I wonder if it’s because neither of us looks her way.
“You know what I would do if I was going to be here a while longer?” I ask.
“Not the cemetery.”
“No. Not the cemetery.” I lean forward and pull my glass in front of me. “I’d go see the Kelvin McCoy concert.”
His forehead mars as if he misheard me.
“What?” I ask. “You don’t like his music?”
“I … No. I like it just fine.”
“Then why are you looking at me like I just grew three heads?”
He sits back in his chair and crosses his arms over his chest. “Are you a fan of his?”
Something about the way he looks at me bothers me. It’s as if I’m wrong to like the country singer that Sienna turned me on to.
“Yes, I guess,” I say. “I don’t know his entire catalogue or anything, but I put a couple of his songs on my cleaning playlist.”
“You have a playlist for cleaning?”
“You don’t?”
“No, I don’t,” he deadpans.
“You don’t what? Listen to Kelvin McCoy or clean?” I narrow my eyes. “You don’t clean, do you? Your house is probably filthy. That’s why you took me to a hotel.”
His jaw falls open in faux-surprise, and it makes me laugh.
“First of all, my house is immaculate, thank you very much,” he says, a chuckle in his tone. “That might be because I pay a very nice woman to come do it, but it’s clean nonetheless.”
“I bet she listens to Kelvin McCoy,” I tease.
He scoots to the edge of his chair, his eyes sparkling. He rests his forearms on the table. I can’t help but notice the way the veins rope around his tanned skin and beneath the heavy watch sitting around one of his wrists.
I say a silent prayer in gratitude that he isn’t an attorney that I have to go up against because staying focused—even for me—would be extremely hard.
He makes a fist and twists his forearm. The muscles flex as he moves it side to side. He clears his throat. I look up.
“Your watch is nice,” I say, picking up my napkin and dabbing the corner of my mouth. It’s a total attempt at distraction … that does not work.
He grins. “It is, isn’t it?”
I nod, setting the napkin back on my lap.
“I bet Kelvin McCoy doesn’t have one like this,” he says.
“Probably not. His music makes me think he’d have something more … leathery.”
Holt’s laughter is loud. “Leather? That’s too badass for him.”
“So you aren’t a fan. I see the truth now.”
“Eh, he’s okay. Kind of a pussy but he’s all right.” He stretches his legs out in front of him. “Maybe Kelvin will come to Chicago, and you can check out his watch. See what you think in person.”
I frown. “I’ll never get to see him live.”
“Why not?”
“I spend all my days and most of my nights in the office.” I sigh. “It’s impossible to find time to do anything else. And it’s been so long since I did that it feels … overwhelming. I wouldn’t even know where to start.”
“Ticketmaster?” he offers.
I laugh. “That’s not what I mean. I mean finding people to hang out with. You don’t go to concerts and things alone.”
“You don’t have one friend to do things with?”
“I have an assistant …”
Holt laughs as Lola sets our plates in front of us. I thank her, and thankfully, she gets the hint and goes away.
“An assistant is someone you pay,” he says, dragging his plate in front of him.
“Maybe I pay her to be my friend.”
He looks at me like I’m crazy. “You have no social life? None at all?”
Suddenly, the idea of being a hermit feels abnormal. I bite the bottom of my lip as he studies me like a science experiment.
“I don’t have time,” I say, fiddling with my napkin and ignoring his gaze. “It’s by design.”
“Seems to me that you need to rethink your design.”
“Why? So I can split my time between work and play and constantly be stressed out? Because right now, there’s no split, and it really works for me.” I lift my fork and finally look up at him. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
His head is tilted to the side. “How do you refill your tank?”
“Coffee.”
He laughs.
I start to spear a french fry when my phone rings in my purse. I set the fork down and dig inside my purse. My assistant’s name is on the screen along with her personal cell number.