Total pages in book: 65
Estimated words: 61563 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 308(@200wpm)___ 246(@250wpm)___ 205(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 61563 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 308(@200wpm)___ 246(@250wpm)___ 205(@300wpm)
She’s completely oblivious. Even with a shiver of desire running down my spine, she doesn’t seem to notice what she does to me.
“So, what changed in your plans?” I ask as she eyes the menu again. I don’t bother looking at mine. I know exactly what I’ll have.
A short, feminine laugh makes her shoulders shake as she pulls her long dark hair over her shoulder and then brushes it back again. “I thought this would be better than what I had planned.”
Bullshit. I can tell she’s lying from a mile away.
“And what did you have planned before?” I say and smirk, pushing for more and wanting to see her admit to this little game she played this morning.
She takes a sip of wine and then answers, “Writing.”
“Writing?”
“I like to go to Central Park to write,” she says easily, slipping her hands into her lap and leaning forward.
“Are you a journalist?”
“No,” she says and shakes her head, “I’m an author.” She takes a sip of wine again and I watch as she fiddles with the stem and continues. “I’m not well known or anything. Just poetry.” She tries to wave off her insecurity then adds, “It doesn’t really make much money, but it’s the career I chose.”
She’s already justifying herself and I don’t like it. She should be proud.
“I think that’s wonderful. It takes a lot of work and diligence to write a novel of poetry.”
Her eyes light up and she visibly relaxes as she says in a delicate voice, “Thank you.”
“Who’s your favorite poet?” I ask her.
“Robert Frost,” she answers quickly. “Hands down.”
“I’ve read a bit of Frost.” It’s true, albeit years and years ago in grade school and I’m pretty sure I hated every minute I was forced to read it. It doesn’t matter, though; my remark makes her calm and that sweet smile comes back.
I clear my throat, smoothing the napkin on my lap and trying to remember what Mrs. Harper said. “‘Poetry is when an emotion has found its thought,’” I say as I look into her eyes and try to say the second part correctly, “‘and the thought has found words.’ I believe it was Frost who said that.” Her entire demeanor changes to one of surprise and ease. I’m shocked that I remembered it myself.
A surprised grin looks back at me. It’s amazing how something so small can make her genuinely happy. She nods and says, “Yes, I do believe you’re right.”
The moment between us is filled with comfortable silence as we each take a sip of our drinks.
“So you’re in construction, I believe?”
“I’m a developer,” I say, hoping she won’t ask too many questions. I don’t think she has any idea of the connections. I don’t intend to lie to her, but I don’t need to give her anything that would help her put the pieces together.
“In the city, right?”
“Brooklyn mostly, although we’re currently under contract with the city to renovate and rebuild some properties in Manhattan.”
“What’s that like?”
“Being a developer?” I’ve never had anyone ask me before and I take a moment to consider my reply. “It’s challenging at times and it pisses me off most days. A lot goes wrong and hardly anything goes the way it’s planned.” I smirk at her as she laughs into her glass at my answer. “Isn’t that what all jobs are like, though?”
She nods her head, setting the glass down but then her expression changes. “I’m not sure I should be doing this,” she tells me with her forehead scrunched.
“Doing what?”
“This,” she says and gestures between the two of us.
“We’re just having dinner.”
Her eyes narrow and I ignore the accusatory stare, picking up my bourbon and taking an easy drink of it. It burns just right on the way down, leaving a trail of heat in its wake.
“I just want to feed you,” I say in a tone that I hope comes out somewhat innocent.
“And fuck me,” she whispers so softly but with a roughness I haven’t heard from that sexy voice of hers. I stare into her gorgeous gaze, daring her to blush, to be embarrassed by it, but she only stares back with desire in her baby blue eyes.
“Yes, and fuck you,” I say. It doesn’t go unnoticed that she clenches her thighs. “You want that, don’t you?”
“I’m not sure I should be sleeping with you,” she says simply but with a firm resolve in her voice. My heart beats in a way that makes it feel tight. Like there’s not quite enough room for it to beat again.
“Are you seeing someone else?” I ask her. My knuckles brush against the white tablecloth as my hands start to fist. I stop them and try to keep my body from showing what I’m really feeling. She better not be fucking anyone else.
She loses the conviction in her voice when she answers, “No.”