Total pages in book: 161
Estimated words: 154890 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 774(@200wpm)___ 620(@250wpm)___ 516(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 154890 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 774(@200wpm)___ 620(@250wpm)___ 516(@300wpm)
Oh, my heart. An unsure Leif Whittington is adorable. “I would—I would love to!” Now. Five minutes ago, I would’ve been ambivalent.
“Then the day started so well, sunshine and blue skies, and I thought, fuck it, let’s do it. But now that we’re here,” he says, bringing a hand to his mouth to hide his grin, “I feel like a bit of a tit.”
“Why? It’s a great idea—I love it!”
“Yeah? You wouldn’t prefer afternoon tea at The Ritz or an evening of cocktails at the top of The Shard?”
“No, I want to row a boat,” I say, taking his hand. I love that he thought of me, and I love how sweet and awkward he’s being right now.
“Yeah?” His answer seems filled with doubt.
“I love, love it!” I insist, practically jumping up and down on the spot. “Come on—let’s get on a boat! I mean, if it’s even open.” I turn to where blue paddle boats are lined up by two men in matching polo shirts. There aren’t many people looking to hire this morning, the passerby mostly dogwalkers and commuters taking shortcuts.
“It’s not officially open…”
“Then how can we—”
He shrugs, a little more confident now. “It’s just open for us.”
“Have you been using your influence, Mr. Sexy CEO?”
“Not unduly, Miss Valente. Not the way I do with you.” He slides his arm around my shoulder, pulling me against him as we stroll toward the men in polo shirts. “Not everyone is interested in my cock the way you are.”
“Hush! You’ll offend the swans.”
The shorter of the two boat attendants has either met Whit or senses he’s this morning’s special customer. It’s not a huge leap, I guess, given the choice between Whit in his sharp suit and the man in jeans being pulled along by a Labrador.
“Mr. Whittington?” the man hedges.
“Just Whit,” he corrects, holding out his hand.
The man looks surprised but smothers it well. The pair shake before he directs us behind him. “We have your rowboat ready over there.”
“You mean we’re not going on one of the blue paddleboats?”
“We can, but that means you’ll have to pedal.” Whit glances doubtfully at my shoes.
“Or I could just watch you row, I guess.” My gaze slides over him suggestively. “You’re gonna need to take off the jacket, though.”
“Yeah?”
“At the very least.”
“We should go to Venice one weekend. I’ll get you on a gondola.”
“They don’t have public indecency charges in Italy?”
“Get your mind out of the gutter, Miss Valente.”
Polo-shirt guy clears his throat. As we turn to him, he ducks his head sideways, his face as pink as mine right now. “This one’s yours.”
Ours is apparently a little wooden rowboat with extras! The plank benches are covered with brightly colored blankets and cushions, and there’s an honest-to-goodness picnic basket placed between them. The kind that Yogi has, though Yogi’s stolen bootie wasn’t from the food hall of Fortnum and Mason. Yum.
“You went all out!”
“Second best to a gondola in Venice,” Whit asserts, holding my hand to allow me to clamber in. “Hang on.” He drops to his heels, and before I know what he’s doing, his fingers make an anklet as he lifts my foot to slip off my shoes. This time, my mind definitely does roll into the gutter as a fragment of memory flashes in my head. We’re in his office and my cheek is resting on his desk. One minute, Whit is looking over at me, and the next, he’s sliding my ankles wider. “Okay?” Our eyes meet as he stands, and I just know he’s thinking the same.
He takes my hand again, and this time, I step into the tiny rocking boat. A moment later, his jacket comes off and he throws it my way. I place it over the cushion next to me.
Polo-shirt guy gives him the safety rundown without any great enthusiasm as Whit loosens his cuffs and folds them back. He catches me watching, and one of his brows lift, seeming to speak a language all its own.
“You’re staring,” he murmurs as he steps into the boat, settling himself on the wooden bench opposite me.
“I know.” Just banking the memories for the rainy days ahead. “I should’ve taken a picture, right? It’d last longer.”
“You can if you like.”
“I can what?”
“Take pictures. Film video.”
The suggestions feel like some kind of sensual jackpot. Or a trap as he takes the oars in each of his hands, his eyes sliding past me as he uses one oar to maneuver the boat away from the dock.
“Pictures of you?” My voice sounds a little high. “Or us?”
He doesn’t immediately answer, but once satisfied with the course, he begins to row, his arms moving simultaneously, the power in his back and abs powering the bow smoothly through the water.
“What would you have me do?”
“Touch yourself.” My answer is instinctual.
“While you settle back and enjoy the show?”