Total pages in book: 115
Estimated words: 111980 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 560(@200wpm)___ 448(@250wpm)___ 373(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 111980 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 560(@200wpm)___ 448(@250wpm)___ 373(@300wpm)
Hmm.
That’s not what she wore earlier to her dog training lessons. A wild thought zings across my skin, makes me square my shoulders, maybe even swagger a little as I head over. The idea that she might have dressed up for me hijacks my mouth.
“You changed for me?” I ask. I know better. I really do.
She rolls her eyes. “I had dog slobber all over my shirt from my four o’clock. Do not flatter yourself…Mister Serious Boss.”
And the nickname’s stuck. All things considered, it could be worse. But maybe it’ll remind me to stop fucking flirting with Chloe. To act like the boss. Even though I’m not her boss.
Chloe nods to the bartender. “A mojito for me, Esmeralda. With your best rum,” she says, then points her thumb my way. “Put it on his tab.”
Well then. Consider me thoroughly dressed down.
“Done.” The bartender slides a coaster in front of me. “What’ll it be for you, Mister Serious Boss?”
I’ll never live this nickname down. “Whiskey sour, please,” I say.
“Yeah, that tracks,” Chloe says.
Esmeralda fights off a smile as she nods to me. “Top shelf too, I trust?”
“When in Rome,” I say, since clearly Chloe’s making me pay still. Which is fair.
“Now that I think about it, I am hungry.” Chloe spins my way. “The truffle fries here are to die for. So’s the arugula salad with fresh strawberries and farm-raised lettuce. And you can’t go wrong with the chargrilled tomato soup.”
I keep a poker face as I add, “At least you didn’t say caviar.”
She shudders. “I never say caviar.”
“Right. Of course,” I say, since I’m pretty sure she doesn’t eat meat. “Let’s do it.”
She scoff-laughs. “Oh, that’s just for me. But you should get something to eat too.”
“Thanks,” I say dryly, then catch Esmeralda’s amused eye. “I’ll have what she’s having.”
“Coming right up,” she says, and then wheels around and grabs some bottles.
I turn to Chloe, impressed with how she finagled a meal out of this planning session. “Well played,” I say, but this raises an important question. It’ll be good for me to know what I’m dealing with as we try to win this gig together. “Am I still in the doghouse?”
“No. I just thought you’d want some of our local fare.” She bats her eyes at me. “Was I wrong?”
I go along with the innocent act since, well, I’m definitely hungry, but I’m also relieved she’s not still mad. “I do,” I say, then segue to a safer topic. “How was your four p.m.?”
“Well, he had a very large tongue, and he licked all my clothes. So, I’d say it was…a little messy.”
“Lucky dog,” I say, before thinking it through. Evidently, my mouth has a mind of its own tonight. So much for following my own mantra.
She jerks her gaze back. “Lucky dog?”
Fuck it. I lean in closer, since responsible Sawyer is losing the battle tonight. My rebel soul is winning. “Sorry, sweetheart. The word lick brought back memories. Won’t let it happen again.”
Her glossy lips part, and something like heat flashes in her hazel eyes. “He was a lucky dog. So were you.”
This time I make the smart decision to shut up.
“Anyway, let’s plan,” she says, shifting back into business mode. “Since you probably have a hot date later.”
I jerk my gaze toward her. “No, I don’t. Why would you say that?”
She shrugs. “No reason.” But she says it way too casually.
“There must be some reason you’d say it,” I say, my interest piqued.
But Chloe shifts her gaze away from me, her voice turning super professional as she says, “So, I asked around about permits—”
Nope. We’ll get to tonight’s topic soon enough. First things first, since some topics can’t be left untouched. “Hold on. Tell me more about my”—I stop to sketch air quotes—“hot date.”
With a long sigh, she shakes her head, like she’s had enough of this line of questioning. “I don’t care what you do when you leave work, Sawyer. The hot date could be with your TV. Or your spreadsheets. Who even knows?”
Ah, so she thought I was meeting a woman when I rushed out the other night after painting her training nook. I fight off a smug smile. “You’ve given this a lot of thought, haven’t you?”
“Me? No. None.”
I lift a hand, raising three fingers. “That’s three denials.”
She meets my gaze, a challenging stare in her hazels. “You can count. Well done.”
“I can also…” I lower my voice. “Read the room. And you telling me three times you didn’t think about my hot date tells me you did. So, go ahead. Just ask.”
“Ask what?”
“If I went on a hot date the other night when I left work,” I say, goading her, just goading her. It’s too much fun not to. “C’mon. You know you want to.”
Her gaze says she won’t be outdone. With a defiant lift of her chin, she says, “Sawyer Dumont, did you go on a hot…triathlon training session?”