Total pages in book: 70
Estimated words: 67733 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 339(@200wpm)___ 271(@250wpm)___ 226(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 67733 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 339(@200wpm)___ 271(@250wpm)___ 226(@300wpm)
“It means,” his tongue steals a lick of the lips I need to stop wishing I could, “this isn’t the only place I can serve you, beautiful.”
In spite of my extensive, extensive efforts to swallow the whimper he’s conjured, it still manages to find freedom like an uncuffed prisoner during a prison break.
Tate shoots me a victorious wink. “I look forward to hearing that more.”
The opportunity for a rebuttal is robbed by the redheaded man approaching the table. “Harper?”
Banishing the lustful look lingering in my expression requires not only heavy blinking but a brief ruffle of my recently straightened locks. “Yes. And you’re-”
“Lars,” he thankfully answers while extending his hand for the shaking. “Nice to meet you.”
“You too,” I politely retort at the same time he settles into his seat.
Not as nice as it would be to have Tate across from me, but I’m not going to admit that out loud.
My eyes cut a glance to the smirking man at my side indicating I don’t have to.
Is he a mind reader?
Is there any skill he doesn’t have?
“My name is Tate, and I’ll be your server for the evening,” he professionally announces to my date. “Would you like to order a drink or spend a few moments with the wine menu?”
Lars unbuttons his jacket and casually inquires, “Got anything special?”
“She’s already at the table, sir.” There’s no stopping my jaw from hitting the floor just as there’s no pause for a rejoinder in between statements. “We have a vintage port that’s locally sourced and an imported cabernet sauvignon that will be unavailable by the end of the night.”
My date doesn’t even bother making eye contact, something that doesn’t settle well with me. “Popular?”
“Quite,” Tate respectfully replies.
“I guess I’ll try that,” he sighs on an opening of his menu.
“Very well then, sir.” Green eyes I can’t get enough of fall back into my brown. “And what about for you, Harper? The usual? Our house Moscato?” Rather than wait for an actual answer, he smoothly suggests, “Or perhaps you’re in the mood for something different? Perhaps a fuzzy navel?” His eyebrow quirks, yet his head tips to the side. “Bit of whip on the top? Afterall, nothing’s better than peaches and cream.”
The small swipe of his lips that he takes indicates he absolutely means the double-entendre, and what’s fucking worse is the fact I want him to mean it.
And lick it.
And stick it.
And dear goodness gracious I need a cold shower.
Oh, and to not start humming that damn song.
“Um, I’ll um…” Verbally flailing again simply inspires him to impishly smirk. Wanting – no needing – to get my bearings and show Nick Jr. that I can play the same games – although I really can’t because that’s just one skill I never bothered developing in the romance department – I lean back into my seat, pull my hair to one side of my face, and coo a challenge, “Impress me.”
“With pleasure, beautiful,” he purrs prior to strolling away.
I do my best not to stare at his ass that’s framed in his black dress pants, but my lady parts conduct a mutiny. They overthrow my gaze so that it’s glued to cheeks I wanna dig my nails into and force me to clamp down on my bottom lip again in hopes that by the end of the night he’ll do it for me instead. Unfortunately, just as my head begins to drift dreamily to one side, Tate looks back, catching me in the ogling act like the creepy cougar he’s turning me into.
How?!?!
What was that, like five minutes of flirting?
I should totally be able to go more rounds before I start singing every version of “Age Ain’t Nothin’ But a Number”.
“You look a lot like your photo,” Lars unexpectedly states, redirecting my attention to where it should be.
On someone it should be.
Someone who is probably gonna click the same age demographic choice on a survey.
“Which is such a relief,” he continues, eyes on mine. “There’s nothing worse than when the stills don’t match the property, am I right?”
The choice of analogy prompts me into nodding as I recall what it is he does for a living.
Real estate.
I offer him a cordial nod of agreement.
“You in the market for a home?” Lars impersonally asks, turning what should feel like a date into an interview.
Then again, aren’t they really the same shit in the beginning?
Folding my hands together in my lap is done during my reply, “Not anymore.”
He makes a wincing face. “Credit issues?”
Why is that his first assumption?
And how offended by it am I allowed to be?
Like call him out on his shit or just throw water in his face and tell him to fuck off?
“Why would you assume I have credit issues?” I cautiously inquire, nails digging into my flesh to help me stay calm.