Total pages in book: 53
Estimated words: 48680 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 243(@200wpm)___ 195(@250wpm)___ 162(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 48680 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 243(@200wpm)___ 195(@250wpm)___ 162(@300wpm)
His amused smile fades, and he rolls his shoulders, almost a shrug. “The girls on that site want money. I have money. It seems like a match to me.”
“That’s not much of an answer,” I counter. “I mean, why go on there, instead of dating people in real life? You could have any woman you wanted. A few, even. Why pay for sex?”
His mouth clamps into a thin line, and his eyes flash. For the first time since I’ve met him, he looks genuinely irritated. Not just frustrated at something I’ve done, but annoyed. Almost . . . hurt.
He turns away from me to look out the window, and takes another long sip of his whiskey. “You didn’t answer me either,” he replies after a moment. “We were both on that site, Bonnie. Our reasons are our own. The here and now is what matters.”
“I . . .” I shake my head. I don’t want to talk about my grandmother with him, or why I need money so desperately. I guess he has a similar reason, though I can’t possibly imagine what it could be, wealthy and drop-dead gorgeous as he is. I sigh. “I’m sorry, Pierce. You’re right. And thanks for the dress,” I add after a moment’s pause, smoothing it with my fingertips. “And the jewelry, even though that seems over-the-top for a second date.”
He laughs. “You think that’s over the top? Just wait until we get to the actual date.”
I lean across the seats to nudge his foot with mine. “No fair. What are you trying to do, make me like you or something?” I groan in fake complaint, but when our eyes catch again, there’s a genuine emotion in his that makes my heart seize.
Does he? Does he actually care what I think, and want to impress me?
Or is this all an act? Part of his power-play fantasy, in which I am a paid actor, here in the role of the innocent damsel he’s deflowering.
It’s the latter, I decide. It has to be.
Otherwise, shit is about to get way too complicated.
“Here we are,” he announces, breaking up the moment of solemn eye contact. I glance to the window beside us, and I can’t help it. I sit up in my seat and actually squee in delight.
Because there’s a helicopter parked right beside us.
“Oh my god are we going on it?” I beam at him.
Pierce laughs, hard. “I thought this would make you more nervous than excited.”
“Are you kidding?” I cry. “I love flying! My Gram was a pilot, she used to take me up in her chopper every summer over the Rockies—I . . .” Shit. I stop dead, realizing my current situation. I shouldn’t reveal so much about myself. And if I don’t want him to know why I’m so desperate for cash, then I need to stop talking about Gram, now, because I talk myself into an awkward reveal.
“A pilot, huh? That’s unusual for a woman in her generation, I’d imagine,” Pierce comments as he slides out of the limo and holds the door open for me.
I step out beside him, my hair whipping across my cheeks in the heavy wind from the chopper blades, as someone starts its engine. “I guess so,” I shout back over the sound of the chopper blades, flushed. “She’s young for being a grandmother, though,” I add, to try and cover. She’s not. She was one of the first female pilots hired to work a major airline ever, and only because she had experience flying as a vet before that. But again. Identifying information. Don’t give too much away.
I run my hand through my flyaway curls and change the subject. “Where are we going?” I shout over the rising sound of the motor.
He rests his hand on the small of my back and guides me toward the chopper. As we reach it, his hand dips lower to squeeze my ass tightly. “That, my dear, is a secret.” Then he catches my eye and grins. “Unless, of course, you know how to fly this thing, in which case I’m happy to give our pilot the night off.” He lets go of my ass, only to slap it.
My cheeks flush an even brighter red, but I grin back at him. “I’d say yes, but, it’s been a few years since I last flew, and if I don’t know where we’re going, and it’s nighttime . . .”
“Good call,” he chuckles softly in my ear as we climb aboard. We settle into seats side-by-side, and when he catches my hand and curls his fingers through mine, I shoot him a happy smile, squeezing his palm gently. It feels natural to sit here like this beside him, our helmets on, but neither of us talking through the loudspeaker. We’re just enjoying the view, especially once we take off and begin to sail across the familiar landscape of San Francisco, and then eastern California.