Total pages in book: 104
Estimated words: 99675 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 498(@200wpm)___ 399(@250wpm)___ 332(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 99675 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 498(@200wpm)___ 399(@250wpm)___ 332(@300wpm)
“I knew I could count on you, Jo.” He thumps the bar with a loose fist and slides off his stool. A pretty redhead backs up, bumping into Justin’s side––not at all by accident––then gazes over her shoulder with a huge smile that Dimples, ever the southern gentleman, returns with not one but two, “pardon ma’ams.”
Leaning over the bar, he places a quick kiss on my cheek and whispers, “Gotta go and get my beauty rest. This gorgeous face needs to be camera ready for national television on Sunday,” probably more for the sake of the redhead that’s still gobbling him up with her eyes than anything else. The redhead pouts and huffs and turns back to her friends.
“Yeah, yeah. Beat it. Some of us have to work for a living.”
Justin beams a bright smile at me. “Oh, hey––you never called me back on New Year’s?”
I splurge on a cab ride home even though I’m wearing a heavy down jacket, a hat, and gloves. It’s in the teens again, so cold my breath has mass. Los Angeles weather beckons me every time my body spasms from the frigid temperature. Around two am I trudge into the house and ascend the stairs as quietly as possible, tiptoeing down the hall. A slice of light bleeds out from under the closed door of Fancy’s bedroom. As soon as I walk past it, the light turns off. That’s the third time that’s happened this week. Does he have Spidey sense? I know I’m being quiet.
I flip on the light in my bedroom and freeze. Except for my jaw, my jaw hits the ground with a thud. My fairy Godmother must have broken into my room while I was at work. She must have. There’s no other possible explanation.
Eyes wide and unblinking, I slowly step inside and turn in slow circles. I don’t know what to gape at first, the sixty-three inch television hung on the wall, the dark wood furniture, or the tufted bed. The entire room looks like it stepped out of the pages of Elle Décor. There’s even a nice rug covering the ancient, scuffed up wood floor. And drapes. Thank God for drapes.
I’m dumbstruck. Mindlessly, I grab the remote, turn on the television, and lose my ever loving shit. Quietly, though, veeery quietly. All the channels. All of them. And…Apple TV and Netflix. I’m dead. I must be. I must’ve died and gone to heaven.
Forget that it’s way past midnight. Forget that he may or may not be doing something naughty to himself. The urge to spew gratitude propels my body to Vaughn’s bedroom door. Once there, though, I blank. The light comes back on. Definitely Spidey sense.
“I can hear you,” he calls out, his voice rougher than usual.
I can’t figure out how to make my vocal chords work. He’s made me stupid. The man murders gray matter. Without asking, I open his door and…umm…stare. In my defense there is a lot of skin on display.
He’s sitting up in bed, leaning against a tufted leather headboard that matches my brand new white one. His chest is bare, the sheet pulled up to his lean hipbones. I suspect he’s naked under that sheet, but manage to maintain some semblance of civility and control the impulse to do a full-fledged investigation. With discipline worthy of a ninja, I force my eyes up to his face. Where I find him putting on glasses––horn rimmed glasses to be precise.
Guys with glasses have never done a thing for me. Never. Until now. Now they’re doing something. Something that makes me uncomfortably warm in this notoriously drafty house.
He rubs his eyes, eyebrows rising and falling. I know he got an early start; I heard the shower running at five this morning. He must be exhausted. What’s he still doing up at this hour anyway?
Behind those glasses, his soft, sleepy eyes conduct a brief examination of my face while he patiently waits for me say something. I have yet to produce a single sound. It’s starting to get a little weird so I point to the room next door.
“You don’t like it?” His shoulders fall a little in what looks strangely like disappointment. “I did the best I could on short notice. You can change it if you want.”
Don’t like it? Is he drunk? Better yet, am I drunk? Why would he be disappointed?
“Don’t like it? I…I don’t know what to say. Love isn’t a strong enough word. I can’t believe you…Netflix…Apple TV.”
His mouth kicks up on one side. “You seem more excited about Netflix than you did about me getting you out of jail.”
“It’s Netflix. You have no idea how many hours of uninterrupted, mind blowing pleasure you’ve given me.” That sounded different in my head. Two spots of heat appear on my cheeks while his mouth quivers in amusement. At my expense, of course.