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)
She says it all upbeat and cheery, like she needs to exonerate me from the offer.
Maybe she’s not used to people doing nice things for her. But is helping her out of a jam that nice? It just seems like the right thing to do. Besides, it’s rare when you can truly help someone. When you can give them what they need when they need it. Usually, help is like the old toolbox you find in your grandfather’s attic. It has a flathead screwdriver when you really need the Phillips-head.
In my case though, I have the right tools for Josie. A wallet and a willingness. I pin her with a serious stare, so she knows I mean every word. “Let me help you, Josie.”
“Let me pay you back, Wesley,” she says, staying strong.
“One, you’re not paying me back. It’s a gift that I want to give. Two.” I glance around the shop, gesturing to the racks and shelves bursting with clothes that women her age usually like. I mean, it’s not like I picked a Dress Barn. “What’s it going to be? Pants, shorts, shirt, or dress?”
She laughs. “You’re bossy.”
I resist the urge to make a naughty joke. Mostly. I mostly resist it. “I am.”
She breathes out in a sort of relaxing sigh, like she’s relenting. “Thank you. And shockingly, I’m not picky right now. I’m at the I’ll take anything stage of dressing.” Her pretty lips curve up in a curious grin. “But tell me, Mister Bossy, what would you pick for me?”
I seize the opportunity to get to know her. “I’ll pick, but on one condition.”
“What’s that?” It’s asked with a little challenge, one that says she likes to hold her own.
I wiggle my fingers in a serve-it-up gesture. “I need a clue or two.”
“A fashion clue?”
“Exactly. I’m a good shopper but…” I take a beat, so my next words land right where I want them to. “I don’t want to pick an orange sundress when it turns out your…boyfriend hates orange.”
Her eyes sparkle. “Wesley, was that your way of asking if I have a boyfriend?”
I scoff. “Please. I’d never be that obvious,” I say, then give her a look like I’m waiting.
She straightens her shoulders. “My boyfriend, who’s the head of the San Francisco mafia, would probably like to personally thank you for making sure I don’t roam the streets half-naked while he’s off working at the docks.”
I shoot her an I’m impressed smile. “Making concrete shoes, I’m sure.”
“Of course. It keeps him quite busy.” She pauses, then asks, “And will your girlfriend who speaks five languages, looks beautiful without makeup, and saves endangered animals like to give you any fashion tips over FaceTime for me?”
Fuck me. She’s perfect. “Actually, she’s going to come join us. That work for you?”
“It works perfectly,” Josie says, and if I was looking for a distraction from my father tonight, the universe delivered.
But even though we were both clearly messing with each other, I don’t want there to be any questions about my status. I set a hand on her bare arm, briefly savoring the feel of her soft skin as I say, “Josie, I’m single.” And because she’s so damn pretty and so flirty and so quick on her feet and because we haven’t talked once about hockey or calories or exercise, I add for emphasis, “Very single.”
She doesn’t fight off a smile. “I’m very single too.”
“Good.” I roam my eyes over her in her makeshift dress. “And while I suspect you look good in anything, I’m picking pants.”
“Why’s that?”
“I’m betting you want to feel different than the way you feel right now. Pants would be the fastest way to that.”
Her smile is sexy and smart at the same time. “Get me some pants, please,” she says, and hell if I don’t hear get into my pants. Or really, I want to.
I nod toward the rack near us and flick through some options. “So, what’s your favorite color?”
“Guess.”
“Fine.” I stop hunting and take a beat, traveling up and down her frame, adding up clues, then give it my best shot. “Black.”
She blinks, clearly surprised. “Um, close.”
“Gray?” I ask with a laugh.
“It’s black and white actually,” she says.
I crack up. “Dude, you picked two colors.”
She squares her shoulders. “Maybe I’m an overachiever.”
“Maybe?” I arch a brow. “Sounds like you are.”
“So how did you know?”
I lift a hand, pointing in the direction of her glasses. “There’s a little black and white checked pattern on the arms.”
“Oh,” she says, then touches them gently, like she’s reminding herself. She tucks a strand of chestnut hair over her ear. “You’re right.”
“Yeah. I noticed them earlier,” I say, and it’s an admission that I’ve paid close attention to her.
Her cheeks pinken in the most alluring blush ever. She swallows, then looks around, getting her bearings maybe. For a few seconds, a sense of déjà vu slams into me. Have I seen her before? She feels vaguely familiar, but I see a lot of people at hockey games. It’s possible I’ve seen her or someone like her once. Besides, I’m pretty sure I’d remember her if we’d met.