Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 80052 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 400(@200wpm)___ 320(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80052 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 400(@200wpm)___ 320(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
“Oooh, sexy. Tell me more. Are you going to pop the cork on a bottle of wine while you make love to your spreadsheets?”
His gaze takes on a new challenging edge. He’s had enough of my smart mouth. “You know who has good wine? Smith’s. Maybe I’ll go in and enjoy a glass while they prepare my dinner to go.”
“You should!” I say, praying reverse psychology is a real thing. “Definitely.”
Meanwhile, I think, Listen here, you diabolical mastermind, if you so much as step foot inside Smith’s, I’ll . . .
“Blaze!” I squeal with delight as I see him just up ahead, standing in front of the restaurant. I’m immensely relieved. A part of me regretted not checking in with him again this afternoon. I’ve been worried he’d find himself wandering aimlessly around the island, consulting my map in confusion as he reached a cliff’s edge. Well, it says to keep going forward . . .
I step out of Cole’s grasp and hurry toward Blaze, sending a silent thank-you to the inventors of concrete as my high-heeled feet touch solid ground again. Aware of our audience, I give Blaze a kiss on each cheek. It’s something I’ve never done to anyone in my entire life, but it works out well.
“I love your dress.” His eyes widen with appreciation as he steps back. Thank you, Camila and Lara! “Who’s it by?”
“Oh . . . um . . .” I look down at it like that might jog my memory. Then I laugh. “I have no idea, to be honest.” Do guys care about that sort of thing? I’m kicking myself for not reading the label. I could have impressed him with my fashion prowess.
“It suits you. It’s the perfect silhouette for your body type.”
“Thank you,” I say, flustered by his genuine compliment.
Then Blaze sees Cole coming up behind me, and his entire demeanor changes. He blinks a half dozen times, like he’s about to lose control of his bowels. “Oh, hello, sir.”
I swear he’s about to salute Cole. They’re like the same age!
“Relax, you’re not on the clock,” I tease Blaze with a playful laugh.
He’s still flustered, so I offer an explanation to help put him at ease. “I happened to bump into Cole on the way here. He’s just going to order something to go while he enjoys a glass of wine at the bar. Don’t mind him.”
Blaze—probably aware that he has the opportunity to impress his superior—shakes his head. “No, no. You can sit with us while you wait for your food.” He looks to me for backup. “Yes?”
I don’t know why he bothers asking. He doesn’t wait for my reply, which would have been a hard no. He’s already leading the way toward the front door so he can hold it open for me and for Cole.
Much to my dismay, Cole follows right behind me. So he’s really going through with this? Absurd. I can’t wait to turn the tables on him one day. If I so much as see him eyeing a woman, I’ll be sure to sabotage it the same way he’s sabotaging this for me.
At the hostess stand, Blaze explains the situation to Sabrina. “We’ll have one more dining with us. Hope that’s okay.”
Sabrina—who was slouching and looking at her phone before we walked in—now stands to attention once she sees Cole is in her midst.
“Mr. Clark, you guys, right this way.”
I narrow my eyes and glare back at Cole as we begin to follow her. Is this how everyone treats him? Am I supposed to treat him this way? That ship has sailed.
We’re being ushered to the best table in the house, the one with views of both the bustling kitchen and the sprawling ocean. Smith’s is built up off the ground, high enough that you can see for miles, which is a fun little topic of conversation I could bring up with Blaze if only Cole weren’t still here.
Once we reach the table, Cole pulls out my chair for me. Or he starts to before I yank it out of his grasp and finish the task myself. Blaze is talking to Sabrina, completely oblivious.
“Do not sit down,” I hiss under my breath. “Cole Clark, if you take that seat—”
He takes it and then rudely sets his leather bag on the fourth, unoccupied chair.
Great, now I’m on a date with Blaze, Cole, and that leather bag. It’s like a cheesy ’80s dating show. Contestant Number One, what’s your idea of a fun night out?
Desperate for this charade to be over, I raise my hand and wave it wildly overhead until a waiter sees me. His eyes widen with worry, and he comes running over.
“Good evening, everyone,” he says, winded. “Sorry about the wait. I’m Mason. I’ll be taking care of you ton—”
“Mason, pleasure. I’ll speed us along here a bit. He’d like to order food to go.” I point to Cole; then I wave between Blaze and myself, even leaning toward him for emphasis. “We will be dining in, together.”