Total pages in book: 65
Estimated words: 61440 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 307(@200wpm)___ 246(@250wpm)___ 205(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 61440 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 307(@200wpm)___ 246(@250wpm)___ 205(@300wpm)
Instead, when his text pops up a few hours later, I don’t even try to resist.
Meet me tomorrow in Central Park at noon? Southwest corner of the great lawn? No need to come in full Eric gear, but bring your improv sock. I’ll bring lunch and we can practice manly eating after you master the walk.
See you then, I respond. I force myself to leave it at that, grateful that they don’t make an emoji for “I daydream about licking you an unseemly amount,” and that I can go to sleep with my dignity intact.
For tonight, anyway.
CHAPTER 7
Jack
Day 5 Sunday 8/5
Ilove the Great Lawn.
Spanning fifty-five acres, this patch of pristine, sun-warmed grass has become my oasis, a breath of fresh air in an impossibly cramped metropolis.
Also, there’s no bed.
More specifically, no chance of visualizing my best friend’s sweet, sexy sister sprawled out on her bed, fists clutching her polka-dot comforter as I make her come in all the various ways I’ve been dreaming about lately.
Christ. I pulled a near all-nighter last night, finalizing an aggressive new portfolio package for one of our VIP NHL clients, but even that wasn’t enough to distract me. By the time I dragged my ass out of bed for my morning run, I’d given up on evicting Ellie Seyfried from my mind.
Yesterday was a close call.
Too close.
The feel of her warm body melting against mine as we danced to Sam Cooke’s soulful voice, her sharp intake of breath as my mouth lowered to hers, that damn bed mere inches away…
I close my eyes and tilt my face toward the sun, trying to burn that image from my retinas.
At least we’ll be in public today, surrounded by the ultimate cock-block—tourists with selfie-sticks.
“You snooze, you lose, buddy.” The voice is light and lovely, layered with a richness that can only belong to the woman who’s taken up permanent residence in my head.
I open my lids and gaze into eyes the color of sapphires and a smile bright enough to compete with the sun. Ellie is already kneeling on my blanket, reaching for the goody bag I brought. Dressed in black jeans and a low-cut turquoise T-shirt, hair swept into a ponytail draped over her shoulder, she leans forward, granting me an unintentional peek at the curves beneath her shirt.
All traces of Eric Webb are gone.
My return smile is too eager, but it’s too late to do anything about that now. “You made it.”
“And you went overboard.” She sits back on her heels, pulling out containers from the overstuffed bag: olives, cut fruit and veggies, three different hard cheeses, fig spread, four knishes, enough deli sandwiches to feed half the park, sparkling waters, and other snacks the owner at my favorite Jewish deli insisted I take when she heard I was meeting a woman for lunch.
You have to spoil her, honey! Ruth said. Keep her coming back for more!
“I wanted props for today’s lesson,” I tell Ellie now. “According to sociologists, eating can be an obvious gender marker.”
Yeah, I’m seriously bullshitting my way through this one, but it’s better than admitting the truth—that I love picnics in the park and wanted to do something fun with Ellie today so she wouldn’t be so nervous about the dude stuff.
“But first,” I press on, not giving her a moment to question my questionable science, “how’s that walk coming along?”
She shimmies her shoulders, radiating newfound confidence. “According to Sonia, I nailed it.”
“See! I told you it would get easier.”
“She and Spence helped me out last night. I got dressed up again, and we did the catwalk thing in the hallway. It was very Top Model. Only—you know—manly.”
“Pics or it didn’t happen,” I tease.
With a grin, she pulls out her phone, thumbs dancing across the screen. A few beats later, my phone buzzes with a text from a number I don’t recognize.
“That’ll be Spence with the evidence.”
Grinning, I pull up the video her friend sent—Ellie strutting her stuff down the hallway in all her masculine glory.
“Nailed it,” I say with a wink. “Want to do a few more laps around the park, just to be certain?”
“I hoofed it here from the Lexington stop.” She drags the back of her hand across her forehead. “After hiking several long blocks with a balled-up tube sock chafing my thighs, I think I deserve some food.”
“Here, here.” This, from a random passerby, snickering as he continues across the lawn.
Ellie’s ears turn red at the tips, but she giggles, a sound as contagious as her sunshine smile. I focus on that—the music of it, the way the skin around her eyes crinkles—anything to guide my thoughts away from the dangerous territory between her thighs.
“Now that I’ve announced my freak status to Central Park,” she says, “are you going to teach me to eat like a man, or let me starve?”