Total pages in book: 141
Estimated words: 141676 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 708(@200wpm)___ 567(@250wpm)___ 472(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 141676 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 708(@200wpm)___ 567(@250wpm)___ 472(@300wpm)
“Huh? No. I don’t need anyone else thinking I like that stuff.”
“Oh, yeah, they’ll revoke your health freak card for sure.” She rolls her eyes. “You know, you’re the only person in Kansas City who truly hates it.”
“I don’t hate your sugar factory, Juniper. Let’s not make this personal,” I grind out. “Besides, I’ve got a reputation to keep.”
She side-eyes me hard. “Aren’t you already ruining that by pretending to be engaged? If everyone thinks you’re such a monk, it must be out of character.”
“Trust me,” I say with a snort, “Forrest Haute thinks I’m the luckiest fuck in the known universe. Nothing you need to worry about there.”
“I wasn’t the one who was worried,” she mutters.
“Do you have any hobbies? Something outside of work that’s not food?” I ask, flogging this back on track before it becomes another fight. I don’t want to be stuck thinking about whether she’s going to negatively impact my reputation—or why she’s definitely going to negatively impact my discipline when she’s dressed like that.
She chews her lip as she thinks, biting hard enough to whiten the skin. I look away before that damnable hard-on resurrects itself.
“I like art,” she says quietly. “I used to go to all the galleries with Nana when I was in high school, though we haven’t done that for a while.”
“Art,” I echo, mulling over if it’s something I can work with. “Have you been to the Nelson-Atkins the past year?” I lean forward.
Anyone remotely interested in the arts scratches their itch at the local museum. I do it myself a few times a year, and not just for charity events.
“Oh, I love visiting when I have the time. The self-guided tours rock and I think I could spend all day in the European art section,” she says slowly. “I used to burn up whole evenings there when Nana ran the shop, before work got to be too much. Amazing events, too.”
“It’s perfect, then. We’ll say we met during the Lunar New Year festival.”
“Last winter? Isn’t that a little quick to be engaged?”
I spread my hands, clenching my teeth.
“It’s believable. Look, we’re both busy people. It takes time to arrange dates, meet up, get to know each other so well that we’re exclusive. Say it took us two months to start officially dating—that puts us near a solid six months now.”
She folds her arms, but there’s a thoughtful gleam in her eyes. “Okay, maybe. If we both like art, that’s something…”
“Specifically, I like the way colors and shapes can convey meaning without needing to be spelled out in human dramas.”
“Oh, so you like modern art.” She makes a face and laughs. It takes me by surprise. I don’t think I’ve heard her laugh at me before. Not like this, a burst of genuine amusement. “Well, we’d definitely have met up to discuss it if you spouted off something like that. Because I think art has more meaning when it’s relatable. Something you can tell was made by a person and not a robot.”
“Hard realism limits the imagination,” I urge, wondering how the hell I fell into debating fucking art.
“But faces are a huge part of feeling. Just look at American Gothic or Nighthawks—” She holds up her hands and shakes her head, a small smile on her lips. “Let’s save this for another time. We’ve still got an entire relationship to make up.”
“Yeah, so we met at the art gallery, argued about modern shit over drinks, and then we fucked a few times.”
Her mouth falls open.
“Don’t tell me you don’t believe in premarital sex, sweetheart? That’s typically what people do before they decide to seriously date.”
“N-no, of course not, I—” She’s stumbling. Red-faced. Adorably flustered. “How many times would you say we hooked up before we decided to make it more?”
“You think anyone will ask?” I snort.
“…for my own information.”
Is she trying to kill me today? The way she bites her lip almost makes me think she wishes this part was real.
And it shouldn’t make my cock ache so much, especially when I remember how she’s a fellow workaholic and might just verge on celibacy like yours truly.
“Ten times,” I bite off.
“Ten? Isn’t that a bit much?”
“Woman, it wasn’t nearly enough if I liked fucking you. And it would’ve happened over two weeks before I decided I liked being inside you so much we decided to go exclusive.”
Her legs actually quiver, shifting apart.
“Excuse me. Dry throat.”
That’s my cue to spin around, grab a water, and pour half the bottle down my throat before I become a human fire hazard.
Fuck you and your big mouth. Stop talking about sex.
This is not how it’s supposed to go.
“Anyway, after that, we decided to get serious. We made a real effort to fit each other into our busy schedules,” I say, finally facing her again with my inner beast back on its leash.