Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 76446 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 382(@200wpm)___ 306(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76446 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 382(@200wpm)___ 306(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)
"Like where?" I'd asked, having spent the last few nights poring over guide books, trying to get the lay of the land, figure out talking points for our dates.
"They said Republic Square is beautiful. And the gardens in the Cascade area. There are a bunch of unique bookshops on Mashtots Avenue. Oh, and this, um... potato cave?" she said, brows furrowing like maybe she wasn't remembering that correctly.
"Levon's House," I supplied. "A man's wife told him to dig a potato cellar. But for some reason, he went overboard for a few decades, and created this giant labyrinth of tunnels."
"Yes! That's it. It sounds interesting. I think they do tours."
I was certain they did.
And just as certain that getting her alone in the tunnels would be even better.
"Maybe we can go someday."
"Yeah?" she asked, eyes bright, smile a little unsure, but not because she didn't want to go with me, because maybe a little voice was saying I was toying with her, that I wasn't really that interested.
Maybe there was some insecurity there after all.
Why, I wasn't sure.
It was almost painful to look at her, she was so gorgeous. Especially like this. Out of the work clothes. In something she felt comfortable in, something that also happened to be just a tad bit more form-fitting, that dipped a little low up top, showing off where a simple little silver pendant hung between her breasts with her hair down, teasing over her shoulders, down her back, something she touched when conversation slowed, a little nervous tick.
Gorgeous.
Just, I figured, a little inexperienced.
Maybe especially with older men.
"If you're not sick of me before we get there, that is," I told her, sending her a bashful smile, something that made her roll her eyes like she'd never heard anything more ridiculous before.
From there, she told me about her parents, about the friends she had left behind. Or, more accurately, people she thought had been friends, but hadn't reached out at all since she dropped out of college and moved temporarily to a new country.
"I guess their lives are moving on without me," she'd told me, trying for unaffected, but her gaze went off over my shoulder, her tone dipped a little lower than usual.
It bothered her, being left behind, being forgotten.
So my attention, well, it was necessary. And constantly. Especially with how fragile her confidence was at the moment.
She wanted to know that I wouldn't forget her.
I had no idea at the time that her friends were idiots.
It would be impossible to forget her.
Romeo jobs were supposed to be easy.
Once you had worked in covert ops for long enough, you learned to quickly suss a person out, see exactly what they were looking for, what they needed. Then all you had to do was be that person for them.
Whatever they needed from you, you gave them. Over and over and over until they got used to it, until they counted on it, until they couldn't live without it.
And then you got what you needed out of them.
Once you had that, you left.
There was no getting emotionally involved because you weren't yourself when you were with them, you were some fantasy, some dream come to life.
As I sat there with Mack, regaling her with stories about all the places I had seen, all the language barrier mishaps, the time some lady in Italy beat me with a wooden spoon when I had accidentally asked her if I could fuck her daughter - a turn of phrase given to me by some random guy on the street who I had asked for help translating who must have had quite a laugh at my expense.
"What were you actually trying to ask her?"
"If I could rent out her room. Needless to say, I picked up Italian pretty quickly after that."
It was little ways that I let her in, let her know the real me. And it became hard after just a few dates not to simply give her the attention she wanted. Not just because it was the job, but because I wanted to give it to her. Because the twinkling way she laughed was unexpectedly addictive. Because the smile that spread across her face when she experienced something new - the intricately carved shelves and gilded ceilings in the bookshops she had wanted to see, climbing the stairs in the Cascade area, all five-hundred-seventy-two of them, even though I told her there was an escalator inside - was enough to stop a man in his tracks just so he could take notice.
The low moaning noise she made when she first tasted something new to her was the most erotic thing I had ever heard in my life.
She was still a little unsure with me, most likely even worried because I hadn't made a move, so she couldn't bring herself to make the first one, but chose instead to accidentally brush her arm against mine when we sat side-by-side, or have her leg slide against mine as she crossed hers, or even bump into me while we were walking as though she was distracted, wasn't paying attention to where she was going.