Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 106935 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 535(@200wpm)___ 428(@250wpm)___ 356(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 106935 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 535(@200wpm)___ 428(@250wpm)___ 356(@300wpm)
Finn’s green eyes spark with intrigue. “Oh yeah? What does he say?”
I scratch my jaw, hopeful but cautious. “He seems…open to it.”
With a gregarious grin—that’s Finn’s go-to smile—he leans back in the chair and stretches out his arms wide as if embracing the idea. “Do it. Do it. Do it.”
“Let me think about it tonight,” I say, as if my answer wasn’t always going to be yes.
“Asshole,” he mutters.
I enjoy his frustration and finish my eggplant bharta.
We finish dinner and say goodnight. Back at my flat, I jump on my texts as soon as the door swings closed. We switched from DM to text recently, and I’m dying to know what Lola’s double pings were about.
Lola: I know you’ve been wanting to see my exercise clothes. Thought you’d enjoy.
There’s a shot of her folded laundry stacked on her bed next to pillows in silver, gold, and sapphire blue. I’m dying for a shot of her, but I haven’t asked. The delayed gratification game is too fun.
Nick: Nice pillows.
Lola: You like my pillows?
Nick: I really do.
Lola: The color?
I unknot my tie as I type with one thumb. It’s hot in here now. Tropical levels.
Nick: No, Lola. Not the color.
Lola: Then what, Nick?
Nick: I like imagining you lying on them tonight. How your hair would look spilled out across them. How your face would look blissed out.
Lola: Is that something you want to see?
Nick: Very much.
I set the phone on my bare coffee table, trading it for my laptop. I take the computer out to the balcony and park my ass at the little table overlooking the hustle and bustle of Knightsbridge six floors below.
There, I review Finn’s proposal. I’ve got to focus on these terms and not let anything cloud my decision-making.
Not a photo of Lola that, god willing, might arrive soon.
Not on those convos.
Not on my own wild thoughts of that woman.
I spend thirty minutes reading the terms again, but when my son’s ringtone trills from inside, I jump up and rush to answer.
“Hey there, kiddo. What’s going on?”
“Hey, Dad. Not much. Just trying to unpack.”
I return to the balcony, phone pressed to my ear. “You hate unpacking.”
“With a passion,” he says.
I smile, remembering how he’d live out of boxes for weeks whenever we moved. Which was a lot.
“So I’m your procrastination?”
“Lucky you,” he deadpans.
“Lucky me, indeed.”
I hear him shuffle around the apartment he’s subletting for the month and picture him opening boxes. I want to ask if he’s thought more about my offer, but he does best when he comes to me. I have to be strategic and wait for my pitch.
Instead, we chat about baseball, and whether the New York Comets can beat the San Francisco Cougars until, finally, he says, “I think I’m in. Like, on a trial basis, if that’s okay?”
I punch the sky. “That’s great.”
Later—much later—as I’m reading a book on my phone in the dark, a text arrives with a picture attached.
I suck in a breath through my teeth as I slide open the message.
It’s only the side of her face, barely even a profile shot. But it’s clear what she’s doing.
She understood the assignment perfectly, and I don’t look away for a good, long, satisfying time.
A few weeks later—after a signature from me and a signature from my brother—I send a very direct text to Lola.
No flirting, no teasing, no pics. Just a request.
Nick: Can I call you?
Lola: Of course.
My wingtips echo in my nearly empty flat as I pace, waiting for her to pick up my call. I’ve got a meeting to attend in an hour, so I’m still dressed for business.
“Hey,” she says, and her voice is like dopamine. I’m feeling good everywhere from that sensual, feminine sound.
“Hey, beautiful,” I say.
“Hey, you,” she says, then laughs, embarrassed. “I guess I said that already.”
Ah, hell, she’s so endearing when she’s a bit awkward. “Yeah, but I like hearing your voice.”
“You do?” She sounds delighted.
“I do,” I say, then I don’t fuck around. I go straight for the prize. “Can I take you out next week on that second date? I’m going to be in New York.”
She’s quiet for a few seconds, but I can hear her breathe, and if a breath could sound excited, hers does. “But it’s our third date, Nick,” she says, all seductive and bold.
“I stand corrected.”
“And on our third date, you better take me out and then take me.”
I groan, a rumble that I feel all the way in my balls. This woman. “Count on it.”
We make plans, then my phone pings. As we talk, I open the photo and groan my approval. She’s in her apartment, stretched out on a red chaise longue, wearing a white tank top, biting the corner of her sexy lips.
“Look at you,” I rasp. “You’re a fucking goddess. I don’t know how I’m going to last through dinner with you.”