Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 99434 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 497(@200wpm)___ 398(@250wpm)___ 331(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 99434 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 497(@200wpm)___ 398(@250wpm)___ 331(@300wpm)
Flanked by the phone taunting me, and the realization that this was my third official date with Oliver, I felt on edge.
I wanted to throw myself into the evening and forget anything else but having a good time with this sweet guy. But when I managed to focus on Oliver, all I could think about was that he’d invited me back to his place to watch a movie after dinner—which I assumed was code for sex.
For the most part, I wasn’t easy. I’d tried out a one-night stand or two in college and realized quickly it wasn’t for me. And although the third date might be a common point for couples to jump into bed, it often took me longer. I needed to get to know the guy and build trust, something that didn’t come quickly for me. But I’d known Oliver for years now, so the third date already had the comfort that sometimes only came after six months of dating.
Between the anticipation of what would come later, the daunting text message waiting for me, and the conversation I’d had with Quinn at the bar earlier, an awkwardness settled into the air during dinner. Oliver had to feel it, too. There were lulls in our conversation, and they seemed to be getting longer. Things between us had always come easily. Yet suddenly I felt like I’d opened my brain’s junk drawer and begun reaching in to pull out random useless crap.
“So…what musical artist do you think is the most overrated?”
Oliver shot me a questioning look. “Musical artist?”
I sipped the after-dinner cappuccino the waitress had just brought and nodded.
“I guess Blake Shelton.”
More silence.
“Seen any good movies lately?”
Oliver set down the coffee he’d just lifted. “Is everything all right, Layla?”
“Yes. Why?” I answered too fast to have given the question any real consideration.
“I don’t know. You seem…sort of on edge. Nervous almost. Is everything okay at work?”
“Yes, things are fine.”
“It’s just…your questions, while they aren’t unusual questions per se…like asking me about movies I saw recently…they…” Oliver trailed off. The lines on his face smoothed as a look of recognition came over him. “Movies… Are you maybe uncomfortable coming back to my place after dinner?”
Oliver was a damn good attorney. He was used to following a person’s train of thought from deposition questioning. We both were. He’d deduced that I was freaked out about tonight. Which…wasn’t entirely wrong.
I decided to be honest. Letting out a rush of air, I blurted, “I’m not ready to have sex with you yet.”
Oliver sipped his coffee. “I’m not ready to have sex with you yet, either.”
My eyes widened. “You’re not?”
He grinned sheepishly. “Nah. I’m just kidding. But it’s fine. I didn’t mean to make you feel any pressure by inviting you back to my place.”
“Can I ask you something?”
“What?”
“Was movie code for sex?”
He looked me in the eyes. “I’d be lying if I said I didn’t hope things would progress there. But I actually did rent a few movies I thought you’d like.”
I offered a sad smile. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. It’s fine.” He reached across the table and took my hand. “I enjoy your company, Layla. It doesn’t matter how long it takes.”
I felt more relaxed after that conversation. Even enjoyed the dessert we shared. Outside the restaurant, Oliver gave his valet ticket to the attendant and took my hands. “You want to come back to my place for that movie? And by movie, I actually mean movie.” He smiled.
I wished my heart were into it. “Can I take a rain check? I’m actually pretty tired.”
“Of course.” He tried to cover the disappointment, but I still saw it. “Let me at least give you a ride home?”
Oliver lived up in Westchester, and I lived in the city—in the complete opposite direction he would be going. Yet I felt like I’d insulted him enough for one evening.
“Sure. That would be great. Thank you.”
***
I could finally scratch that damn itch. But not before pouring a big glass of merlot, ditching my dress and bra in favor of comfy sweats and a tattered college T-shirt, and putting on some soothing music. Slumping into the couch, I picked up my cell and entered my password to finally read the message Gray had sent hours ago. My pathetic heart sped up just seeing his name illuminate.
I tossed back a healthy gulp of wine and settled in to read the long string of messages.
Gray: Hey. Sorry to bother you. Unless you’re out on a date. Then I’m not sorry.
A few minutes later another text had come in.
Gray: Maybe I’m taking this honesty thing too far. Let me start over. Etta got herself into trouble with the police again today. A ticket for speeding and driving without a license. She also came clean and told me it was her second one. Which Google said could mean it’s a felony now. I told her you didn’t do traffic court-type work, but she won’t let me call anyone else. Maybe you could talk to her at least? Give me a call.