Total pages in book: 133
Estimated words: 128069 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 640(@200wpm)___ 512(@250wpm)___ 427(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128069 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 640(@200wpm)___ 512(@250wpm)___ 427(@300wpm)
“Just vaguely?”
“Okay, completely.”
“Perfect then,” he says, and along the way we pass the record shop I spotted earlier, where he tells me he bought the new Ben Rogers album. I have no idea who that is, but I say “cool” and make a mental note to look them up later.
We reach The Hand Dipper quickly. The name is etched into the glass along with a tongue darting past a pair of lips, licking a cone.
“Definitely not vague at all,” he says, holding open the door for me like he did at the clothing shop earlier.
As we walk to the counter he sets a hand on my back. A possessive one that covers the fabric of my sweatshirt and my exposed skin. That makes me shiver too. When we reach the case and check out the tubs of mouth-watering desserts, he murmurs, “Yup. Ice cream porn all right.”
“You should be happy then.”
“Very happy,” he says, in the same confident, raspy way he said very single earlier.
We check out the flavors—balsamic strawberry, lavender honey, cinnamon and champagne. I’m definitely not in Kansas anymore. He turns to me. “Want to try a bunch?”
I want to try him. But first, I need ice cream courage. “What do you think is good for a first night in town? I just moved here.”
He gives me a quick once-over. Something he’s been doing a lot tonight. “You definitely need the cinnamon and champagne then.”
“Perfect. I’ll have a single scoop in a cup.” I shouldn’t be licking a cone in front of him like it’s a sweet, icy dick.
“You don’t want to try it first?”
I shake my head. “No. I’m taking a leap.”
“A woman who knows her mind. I like it.”
He catches the attention of the man behind the counter with a “Hey there.” The guy is wearing a Renegades cap for one of the city’s football teams.
“Hey,” he says to Wesley, furrowing his brow, like he’s studying him. “Are you…on the football team?”
Wesley laughs politely but shakes his head. “No, man. I don’t play football.”
“Sorry,” he says. “You just looked familiar.”
“No worries. It’s all good,” Wesley says. “I’m in the sports business though. On the assets side.”
The server’s brow pinches like that doesn’t compute. “Ah,” the guy says, then satisfied, perhaps, with Wesley being in finance rather than on the field, he returns to rinsing a steel scoop.
And Wesley resumes looking my way. This is probably where I should say what I do for a living. But all the dating research I’ve done says focusing on someone’s job—theirs or yours—is a red flag that you’re boring, or just into money, or that your question might remind them of an annoying co-worker.
I follow his lead and keep it simple with, “I’m in the book business.”
There. It’s true, and we can move on.
“Cool,” he says, then does exactly that by asking, “Have you spent time in San Francisco before?”
I could tell him my brother lives here. That I’ve been to a couple Sea Dogs hockey games over the last few years, though not that many since I’ve been so busy with my master’s in library and information science. But I’ve spent most of my life in my big brother’s big shadow. I don’t need to spend tonight talking about my semi-famous sibling. We might wind up in a convo about asset management in the sports business, and that might put me to sleep. Besides, knowing those details might compromise the integrity of item number one on the list—which is starting to look more and more like a possibility. The less we know about the other, the more faithful I’ll be to Aunt Greta’s list. Best to just be fun, talk about hobbies, and the moment. “I have. But I was usually fully dressed before.”
Wesley laughs, and I pat myself on the back for a perfect deflection. “I’m glad to hear that. Not that you don’t look great in slippers.”
“I rock a pair, don’t I?”
“You do. But wait till you see mine,” he says, and that feels promising too since his slippers are—just a guess—at his home.
In his bedroom.
If I get another couple signs he’s game for more, I’ll go for it. I’ll jump even though it’s been a while since I’ve been on the horse, and I’ve only ever ridden in one saddle. But I’ve seen a lot of saddles on screen. And read about them in books. My imagination is not lacking.
The server finishes scooping and sets down a strawberry balsamic cup for Wesley, then the cinnamon and champagne for me. I reach for my phone to pay, but Wesley covers my hand with his. My breath stutters. His skin is warm. His hand is strong. How would it feel on my back as he bends me over the couch? Damn that Maeve.
“I lied when I said yes to your offer. I lied because I’m buying,” Wesley says.