Total pages in book: 199
Estimated words: 192134 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 961(@200wpm)___ 769(@250wpm)___ 640(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 192134 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 961(@200wpm)___ 769(@250wpm)___ 640(@300wpm)
Absently, I run my hand over the silky bow, frowning as my fingers slide across a card. Plucking it from the bag, I turn it over—In case you change your mind about wanting more than the shirt.
I smirk. So Olive found a way to get her number into my hands after all.
But I'm a good boy and have been since things ended with Lucy a few months ago.
A very good boy, who has no use for a beautiful woman’s phone number.
Though a quickie would take my mind off of this upcoming board meeting, and Olive did seem like the kind of woman who would be fine with a one-night stand—flirty, but not raring to sink her claws into me . . .
I grab my phone again and tap out a message to Olive.
Graham: Anything in particular you think would change my mind?
Almost immediately, my phone pings again.
My eyes practically pop out of my head when I open the multimedia message. Olive is one bold woman. One bold, busty woman.
I blow out a long stream of air, reminding myself I need to stay strong.
I type out a reply.
Graham: Sorry, Olive. I sent that message as a mistake.
Before I can hit send, though, she replies again.
With a dozen smiley panda emoticons.
I groan, sliding a hand over my face.
Emoticons. Why did it have to be emoticons? Is it possible for anyone these days to communicate without a stupid smiley face?
My phone dings once more.
A winking emoticon.
Then a red-thong-wearing emoticon.
And finally, a unicorn jumping over an eggplant.
Fuck. This is what happens when I let myself even think about stepping off the straight, narrow, and celibate path.
Graham: Sorry, Olive. I’m not the eggplant you’re looking for. I need to delete your number.
Then I do.
I draw a deep breath and recommit myself to my one-step program.
The first and only step is this: Resist engaging with the female of the species.
Resist at any cost.
2
Graham
Skyscrapers slide by as the town car weaves its way up the avenue toward the Upper West Side. As Midtown’s high-rises give way to brownstones and brick residential buildings, I recover my center and my focus.
Thankfully, I won’t have to worry about Project Resistance with CJ.
CJ is like a little sister to me. Since her brother passed away, I’ve stepped into the protector role Sean filled so well. The past two years without my best friend and business partner haven’t been easy, but being there for CJ has given me something to do, assuaging my anger and sadness. Every time I get pissed that a texting driver took my friend away, I think of something nice to do for CJ. It’s a coping mechanism that works, and it’s a hell of a lot less complicated than a booty call to the woman of the moment.
Gary pulls up outside Ruby’s Kitchen, where CJ is already waiting on the curb, and my stress level drops another degree. She wears a sunshine-colored dress with strappy sandals and a jacket slung over her arm. Her chestnut hair curls softly in the spring breeze, and her nose is buried in her e-reader, as usual. The woman is an unrepentant bookworm, obsessed with horror novels that are every bit as scary as she is sweet.
“Weirdo,” I mutter affectionately as I savor the sight of her, one of the few people in the world I can trust not to make life unnecessarily complicated. CJ shuts the cover on her e-reader as I swing out of the car.
“And he appears.” She taps her foot playfully as I join her on the sidewalk. She tosses her dark hair off her shoulders as her face melts into that kid-in-a-candy-shop grin she’s never outgrown.
That’s one of the many things I adore about her. Her absolute fucking sweetness.
“I’ve been known to make appearances from time to time.” I lean in to give her a chaste kiss on the cheek, enjoying the familiar jasmine scent of her hair.
“I’m assuming your tardiness means you had a most excellent night,” she says, raising her eyebrows.
That’s the thing about girls who have known you for more than a decade. They’re well aware of your foibles and shortcomings, your strengths and your weaknesses.
“No way.” I hold up two fingers. “Scout’s honor. I was a good boy last night. I was only late because I saw something in a shop window I couldn’t resist.” I hold out the gift bag. “For you.”
“Oh, stop,” she says, smacking my chest. “You’re making it impossible for me to be mad at you.”
I smile. “You weren’t mad at me, anyway. I gave you an excuse to read for an extra ten minutes.”
“You speak the truth.” She smirks as she reaches inside the bag with a soft coo at the sight of the paper. “Oh, it’s beautiful.”
Laughing, I say, “It’s just wrapping paper.”
She looks up and stares pointedly at me. “It’s not just wrapping paper. It’s a sign of thoughtfulness. The last guy I went on a date with brought me a candle his mother gave him three Christmases ago, said I’d look great by candlelight, and suggested we skip the movie and go get naked at his place.”