Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 103851 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 519(@200wpm)___ 415(@250wpm)___ 346(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103851 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 519(@200wpm)___ 415(@250wpm)___ 346(@300wpm)
She drops her arms. “I’m confused.”
“You have a right to be. I like you. I like spending time with you. But I created a business relationship when I got involved with the charity event, and that means I won’t act on those feelings or it puts us both in an even worse position. And I’m not willing to jeopardize your place in this initiative or the opportunities this charity event could afford you.”
“Oh. I hadn’t thought of it from that angle. I just thought you weren’t interested anymore.”
“This meeting with Linc and Griffin has made it clear that I might not be doing as good of a job at keeping this as professional as I intended. But I wanted you to have this opportunity. They’re great guys, and Spark House could gain a lot from having a working relationship with them.”
She taps her lips a few times, maybe absorbing my admission. “From the start, you have treated me as your equal. Even in that first meeting when you were asking the hard questions that made you seem like a jerk. But I realized quickly that you were treating me as a peer, and that you’ve been trying to push me outside of my comfort zone for my benefit. You’ve been very professional, although it’s a bit of a relief to know that this”—she motions between us—“isn’t a figment of my imagination.”
“It’s not. I really am sorry if that’s what you believed.”
“I didn’t know what to believe.”
I nod in understanding. It’s been a tough line to toe. “It’s been an intense evening, so if you would like some time to decompress on your own, we can call it a night, or we can debrief and you can tell me what you thought of Linc and Griffin.” I motion to the door of the apartment.
“Would you like time to decompress on your own?” She throws the question right back at me.
“No, but I’m not the one who got put through the gauntlet tonight.”
“I wouldn’t mind a chance to debrief.”
This is good, back to business and away from personal. “It’s a nice night. We can have a drink on the balcony.”
“Do you mind if I get changed first?” she asks.
“Not at all.” I give her the keycard to my penthouse, and she disappears into the apartment.
I use my thumbprint to let myself into the penthouse. I’m learning that the best way to deflect with London is to bring it back to business when things start getting too intense. Which is ironic since it’s the business stuff that tends to get her all worked up in the first place.
I hope she changes into ratty sweats and an oversize shirt because she’s been killing me all night in that dress. I scrub my hand over my face. “Only a few more weeks and then the event will be over, and I can ask her out again. And hopefully she’s still interested in going on a date by then.” Fantastic. Now I’m giving myself pep talks.
I take the time to change out of my suit and into something casual. There’s no way I can throw on sweats because they do nothing to hide below-the-belt issues, and those have been happening more and more frequently when London’s around.
I check my phone before I put it on the charger.
I have messages from Trent. Actually, I have several GIFs poking fun at my situation. One says: May the Force Be with You. Another is of someone drawing a line in the sand and someone else tromping all over it.
It’s followed by the message:
Is she safe in the apartment?
I debate pretending I didn’t see it, but decide it’s pointless.
We’re going to have a drink on the terrace. She won’t get a tour of my bedroom. She also gave me shit.
Another GIF follows of a woman shoving a man to the ground and dunking a basketball.
She’s got lady balls and you’ve got blue balls. You’re a match made in heaven. Stay strong and don’t let your hormones fuck this up for you.
I send him back the thumbs-up and crossed-fingers emojis. I can only imagine the shit Trent is going to give me tomorrow.
I toss my dress shirt into the closet and pull a worn T-shirt over my head and jab my legs into my favorite pair of jeans.
Once I’m changed, I head to the kitchen and find the bottle of champagne and the mix I requested to be available when we returned from dinner so I can replicate London’s drink. I noticed that she would often reach for it, but then go for her water instead. She also has a habit of rubbing her index and middle finger together, as if she’s antsy and looking for something to do with her hands—like make those tiny puffy stars she seems so fond of.