Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 86751 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86751 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
In any case, Max’s cologne or aftershave, or whatever it is, makes me want to run my nose along his skin to gather a deep lungful of his warmth. Intentionally, I take a step back and put some distance between us. I’m noticing way too many things about this man.
We get drinks at the fountain, and then Max leads me to a table in the corner where he pulls out a chair for me. “So, when is this wedding of the century happening?”
“In about a week.”
His brows arch. “Oh, that soon?”
“Yeah. And apparently, I’m throwing it all into jeopardy by not providing my date’s name so a place card can be made.”
“It would be a shame if your sister can’t get married, all because one place card is missing.” His teasing tone makes me smile.
“A terrible shame.”
He takes a drink of his soda, then casually says, “Luckily, I have a solution for you.”
“What’s that? Buy two tickets to Vegas, so my sister can elope?”
His grin notches higher, deepening the dimple in his cheek. “Not a bad idea, but that wasn’t what I had in mind.”
“I’m listening…”
“I’ll be your date.”
For some reason, my brain goes into slow motion, because at first, I think he’s referring to right now, the dinner we’re having together, and calling it a date. It takes a long moment—embarrassingly long—for me to realize he’s offering to accompany me to the wedding.
When I finally get the picture, I rush to reply. “Oh, no, I couldn’t ask you to do that.”
“You didn’t ask. I offered.”
“No, but that wouldn’t work. We’ve just met. When I told my mom I was dating someone, she jumped to the conclusion that I had a boyfriend. She’ll be expecting my date and I to know each other well.”
“We have a week to get to know each other.”
I give him a skeptical look while I search his face. His offer is sincere.
“Remember, it’s a multi-day event. Not just a few hours on the weekend.” It would actually be okay if I only brought a date to the ceremony and reception, but I’m hoping to discourage him. I just don’t see how it could work, for so many reasons.
“Also not a problem,” he says. “My schedule is flexible.”
“Is it, though? I get the idea that your work is awfully important, since you have to check your messages during yoga class.”
Max cringes, and I hate to say it, but he looks pretty adorable doing it. “Sorry about that. But I didn’t do that too often, now did I?”
“Once was enough.”
He tilts his head, looking so endearing. “I can get time off. It’s no problem.”
I search around for more reasons to support my objections. I can’t imagine spending multiple days pretending that this man is my boyfriend, and what if he reverts back to grumpy yoga-Max in uncomfortable situations?
“There’ll be dancing at the wedding.” When he frowns in confusion at my statement, I add, “I’m just assuming that someone as stiff as you are probably can’t dance.”
“Ouch! Wow.” He clasps his chest, as if I’ve wounded him. “I’ll have you know that I’m actually a really good dancer. Care for a demonstration?” He holds out his hand and pushes his chair back, making room to stand, but I quickly shake my head and gesture for him to stay seated.
“No, no. That’s okay. I’ll take your word for it.”
A couple at a table across from us turns to see what’s going on. Naked admiration sparkles in the woman’s expression as her eyes linger on Max.
“Assuming I can’t dance … what nerve.” Max is still amiably grumbling about my accusation when a server arrives with our food baskets, coconut shrimp for me, and a fish sandwich for him.
“Those look good,” he says, eyeing my food as I unfold a paper napkin onto my lap.
I nudge my basket a couple of inches closer to him. “Help yourself.”
His long fingers select one of the shrimp, dip it into the orange sweet chili sauce, and deliver it to his mouth, where his lips surround the crispy coating. My mouth waters, and it’s not for the food, as Max chews and swallows, his expression reflecting his enjoyment. “Ooh, that’s good,” he says. “Want to try mine?”
My eyes go wide as my mind spins its own interpretation of what he’s offering. I have no interest in the fish sandwich, but I would like to try his. I jolt myself back to reality. “No, thank you. It looks good, too, though.”
“Supposed to be one of the best in the area, from the reviews I read.”
Eager to busy myself, I grab one of my shrimp and quickly take a bite. “This is really good. Thank you for suggesting this place,” I say after I swallow.
“Thanks for coming here with me. I hope your evening’s going better than it was.”