Total pages in book: 81
Estimated words: 76207 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 381(@200wpm)___ 305(@250wpm)___ 254(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76207 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 381(@200wpm)___ 305(@250wpm)___ 254(@300wpm)
Then I would lead him there.
And then to the next place.
Until he just had to know where I was getting my information. Until he was itching for the next fix of something he'd never tried before.
That accomplished, I made my way to my hotel, passing out fully clothed, starfished across the king-sized bed.
I woke up to the sun streaming in through the blinds I'd forgotten to close the night before, foggy from jet lag, lingering dreams tugging at the edges of my consciousness.
Hands digging into skin.
Lips pressed into the dip of the neck, between the breasts, in my hipbone hollows, lower.
And whose head did those lips belong on?
Freaking Fenway Arlington.
"Damnit, Raven," I hissed to my empty room.
I really hadn't needed those ideas implanted in my subconscious. Though, clearly, the underlying sexual frustration had absolutely nothing to do with Fenway himself, but rather the fact that I wasn't even sure how long it had been since I'd known the touch of a man.
Four months?
God, longer?
I was pretty sure it was longer.
No wonder I was having sex dreams.
Well, that was just going to have to wait until this job was over. It was too important. I didn't need any distractions. Not even of the one-night-stand variety.
Annoyed at my mind, my body, and Fenway Arlington, for no other reason than he partook in that sex dream, I rushed through a shower, putting painstaking care into my outfit in case the man in question was snooping around even this early in the day. I sought those pastries I'd denied myself the day before, grabbing a coffee to go with them, and took my breakfast to a local park, avoiding the typical tourist traps in favor of something more honest.
Even as I sat there, though, I felt an unwelcome loneliness settling onto my shoulders, making them slump, weighing me down.
It was especially strange given how accustomed I had become to my own company, how comfortable I was with silence, with private experiences that I would never be able to properly share with someone who hadn't been there to share them with me.
"How nice of you to secure our picnic spot, darling," a newly familiar voice called a second before dropping down beside me on the grass, an actual real-life picnic basket set down in front of him.
My gaze took in his outfit first—a pair of dark wash jeans and a white linen button-up shirt.
It was almost startling to see him not wearing a suit, given that every glimpse of him on his social media included that very outfit of choice.
My head craned up to take in his face, half hidden by designer shades, and I found myself oddly disappointed not to see his light brown eyes.
But only because not seeing them made it harder to read him, of course. No other explanation made any kind of sense.
"What the hell are you doing here?"
"Is that any way to talk to your tour guide?" he asked, pulling open the basket. "One who brought some very nice champagne?"
"I don't need a tour guide," I insisted. "And it is eleven in the morning," I said to the champagne.
"Is it? Huh," he said, tucking the bottle away, coming back with a thermos instead. "Then coffee it is. You look like you need a refill. No, no. I insist," he brushed me off when I tried to object.
"Why are you stalking me?" I asked, taking the coffee, but setting it on my side.
You never took a sip of something you didn't prepare yourself, or watch being prepared. That was basic Girl Safety 101.
"Stalking is a judgmental word. I like to think of it as research from a distance."
"And yet here you are. Brushing my shoulder," I told him as he moved to sit, giving me absolutely no space, but I was too stubborn to move away first. I had a feeling he was banking on that.
"See, Wasp, I was up all night. Tossing and turning, unable to rest easy knowing that you clearly did not come to appreciate how wonderfully charming—and not to mention devilishly good-looking—I am."
"So you followed me."
"Yes," he agreed, nodding. "But I brought snacks," he added, lifting the picnic basket as proof.
"Snacks make it right?"
"Snacks make everything right," he insisted, tone mock-serious, face grave.
"You're ridiculous."
"-Ly charming."
"What?"
"Your sentence trailed off. Clearly, you intended to say I am 'ridiculously charming."
"You're something, that's for sure," I told him, shaking my head.
"You can't tell me you're not at least a little curious about what I have in here."
"With your current creep-level, I wouldn't be surprised if it was the severed head of your previous victim."
"Hmm," he said, shuffling through the contents. With the lid lifted, I couldn't see anything within. "Nope. No severed heads. Or other body parts. But we have three different kinds of cheese, crackers, croissants, and grapes."
While I was not someone who begrudged themselves a minor sweet treat every now and again, I should have known that it had been a bad idea first thing in the morning on an empty stomach. The cheese and bread might help me feel less queasy about my earlier indulgence.