The Make Out Artist (Accidentally in Love #3) Read Online Sara Ney

Categories Genre: Contemporary, Funny, Romance, Sports Tags Authors: Series: Accidentally in Love Series by Sara Ney
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Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 86596 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 433(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
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A competing agent?

I put a pin into my questions because now is not the time.

Following him on the sidewalk, we walk toward the nearby parking structure.

“Didn’t you valet when you got here?”

“No. The line was too long. It was quicker for me to park myself.”

Ah.

I like that about him; efficient.

Why waste time waiting in a line to have someone park your car for the sake of having someone else park the car when he could do it himself?

No frills for Eli.

I do a mental tick in the pro column as he leads us to the elevator, Punching the up button, he stares up at the numbers above the door and doesn’t look down at me.

His cheeks are flush, but that could be from the wind, not the mood.

Soon, we’re on the fourth floor heading toward a sleek black convertible sports car parked in a gore point that is definitely not an actual parking spot. Its brake lights blink when Elias hits the unlock button on his key fob.

I’m surprised when he beats me to the front passenger side door and opens it, waiting until I’m settled into the beige leather before closing the door and going around to the driver’s side.

The car is clean and smells like new leather.

A man's deep voice comes on the radio within a few seconds after he starts the engine. He’s talking about a field full of prairie grass and planes flying overhead, the sun casting long shadows on the ground below.

“Sorry. I just started a new audiobook.”

An audiobook?

I’m interested, being a keen listener myself, but I prefer those over listening to music. Books and podcasts, mostly humorous ones, though I wouldn’t expect a man like Eli to listen to pop culture news and re-telling of reality television shows as entertainment in the car.

Not that I know him, but whatever he’s listening to now sounds more like his speed than mine.

I see on the center display console that the book is titled Drifts of Time and is written by a famous fiction writer my father also happens to be a fan of.

“You don’t have to turn that off. I don’t mind listening to it.”

He shrugs. “I’m a few chapters in, so you’d probably be lost.”

Without him having to tell me, I sense that this car is his sanctuary, and he does a lot of his thinking here. Therefore, the audiobook is private, feels private, and he wants to keep the new words he hasn’t listened to yet for himself.

I get it.

I respect it.

Eli cuts the volume and glances over as he backs out. “I’m starving. How about you?”

“If I don’t eat something soon, I’ll die.”

That makes him laugh. “You’ve literally been eating all night.”

“True. And I ate before I left the house, but they were tiny bites.” I hold my fingers to demonstrate how the bites were minuscule. “Those don’t classify as a meal.”

“Do you eat burgers?”

I snort. “Hell yes, I eat burgers. Does it come with french fries and a vanilla shake?”

He makes a right-hand turn on the street after the security arm goes up, stepping on the gas. “Obviously.”

Ten minutes later, we’re back on the road, a steaming bag of food in my lap of the gourmet burgers Eli ordered on the phone while we drove toward Soho House, an exclusive, members-only club in the middle of the city. A doorman brought it to the car, and off we went.

“Where’re we going?”

“You’ll see.”

Another ten minutes pass of companionable silence, and we’re exiting at the airport, exiting at the departures at Terminal Three. Driving past that, I shoot him a sidelong glance but zip my lips shut. Clearly, he’s not jetting me off somewhere exotic, yet here we are at the airport, cruising past the weary travelers, lugging their bags—all of them headed somewhere.

There’s a driveway a quarter mile past all this, and Eli pulls in, flashing a badge at the guard gate.

The chain-link fence slides open.

Eli drives forward.

The hot burgers and fries simmer on my lap, heating my legs through the bag and sequins on my black dress.

I clutch the brown paper bag tighter when Eli puts the car in park at the edge of a runway, then hits a button for the convertible's roof.

“There are blankets in the back if you get cold.”

He gets out and removes his suit jacket, tossing it on the driver’s seat. He gets into the back, hoisting himself up onto the tail end of the car so his feet are on the seats but his rear is on the retracted roof.

“Wanna join me and bring the food?”

“Oh, my god. Are we going to watch planes land and take off?” I’ve always wanted to come to an airport and do this—ever since seeing it in one of my romantic comedy movies growing up.

I scurry from the front seat and join him in the back, taking a blanket that’s spread over the leather and pulling it up and over my lap.


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