Total pages in book: 26
Estimated words: 23818 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 119(@200wpm)___ 95(@250wpm)___ 79(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 23818 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 119(@200wpm)___ 95(@250wpm)___ 79(@300wpm)
Because this isn’t a regular date. It’s not like there’s going to be a second one after this one. This is just a fun time with a hot guy, and I’ve dressed accordingly. I put on a cocktail dress and heels, which is much nicer than my usual uniform of button-down white shirt, cardigan, and khaki pants for work. The dress is purple and hits mid-thigh exposing a good length of leg. It’s cut demurely, but not so conservative that you can’t see anything. My big Double Ds are obvious, and I pull at the décolletage a little bit from nerves. Am I pulling it up or down? I’m not even sure.
But suddenly, the bell dings and I leap from the couch, rushing to the intercom.
“This is Bridget,” I say in a breathy voice. “Robert, is that you?”
There’s a pause before a gravelly voice comes on.
“No, this is Tom, his driver. Mr. Half sent a car for you. Could you come down when you’re ready please?”
I nod before realizing he can’t hear me.
“Oh yes, of course,” I stammer. “I’ll be down in a sec.”
But when I turn, my movements are slow and dazed. Because Robert sent a car for me? Or was it Gold Medallion that planned this? Regardless, I gather my coat and purse, squeezing the tiny bejeweled clutch tight. Because this definitely isn’t a date at a bowling alley or a sports bar, that’s for sure.
And when I slip down five flights of stairs to the first level, there’s a man waiting there.
“You must be Tom,” I say hesitantly. “I’m Bridget.”
The man is huge, and I mean absolutely gigantic. He must be six foot eight at least, and as big as a bear. But his face is completely neutral, giving nothing away, and he wears a black and white driver’s uniform with a jaunty cap on his head.
“Yes, I’m Tom,” he confirms, nodding as his eyes survey me quickly. It’s not a up and down, you’re hot type of survey. It’s a professional go-over that makes me feel like I’ve been through an x-ray machine. He nods again, averting his eyes.
“I’m sorry ma’am, but I need to search you quickly.”
That makes me stop mid-stride about ten feet away from him in the building’s tiny, shabby vestibule.
“I’m sorry,” he apologizes, “but it’s standard procedure for Gold Medallion. We need to pat-down all clients, male and female.”
Another pause.
“You must be joking,” I say slowly.
He shakes his head regretfully.
“No ma’am, I’m not,” he says. “Again, it’s standard procedure.”
I want to argue.
“They could have sent over a female driver,” are my pointed words. “So that I don’t have to be felt-up by a strange man in a monkey suit?”
But the jab doesn’t get to Tom. In fact, he handles it like a professional.
“Ma’am, I’m sorry but this is the way it is. If you have any questions or concerns, please call management. I’m happy to wait.”
I think about doing that because what in the world is going on? Who gets patted down on a first date? But the allure of Robert is too strong and so close to meeting him, I give in. Whatever it takes to keep this moving along.
“Okay,” I say with an exasperated sigh, holding my arms out straight from my sides. “Let’s just do it.”
And the bear of a man comes up behind me and begins patting me down. He’s brisk and businesslike, not to mention experienced. He’s obviously done this more than a few times. Finally, it’s over and I shoot him a pointed look.
“Can we go now?”
He shakes his head regretfully.
“Ma’am, just one more thing,” he says. “I need to check your purse. Please open it.”
I gape at him.
“My purse is about two inches big and doesn’t fit anything!” I sputter. “Why is this necessary? I’m not using drugs, trust me.”
But the man just shakes his head again, averting his eyes from my gaze.
“It’s standard policy and procedure,” he repeats again. “Please ma’am.”
And I can’t be mean to someone with such good manners. So heaving an exasperated sigh, I snap open the bejeweled clutch and hold it out to him. As expected, there are my keys, a credit card, and some breath mints.
“Satisfied?” I say wryly. “You couldn’t fit anything dangerous in here.”
But unbelievably Tom shakes his head.
“I’m sorry, but I need to check the lining as well,” he says. “Would you mind emptying the contents?”
“What?” I gape. “You must be joking. This has gone too far.”
But this time, the giant man says nothing, merely waiting patiently. And heaving another sigh, I pull out my things and hold the silk purse out to him.
“Knock yourself out,” is my comment. “But I promise you, there’s nothing there.”
Tom’s not listening because he’s slowly running his fingers over the jeweled exterior, as if examining it for unknown lumps and bumps. He opens the purse again, checking the lining and even looking into the tiny pocket to see if there’s nothing there. Of course, it’s empty.