Total pages in book: 129
Estimated words: 125257 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 626(@200wpm)___ 501(@250wpm)___ 418(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 125257 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 626(@200wpm)___ 501(@250wpm)___ 418(@300wpm)
I pull back, pin her with a hot stare. “We should do it now.”
“Before we go in,” she says, jumping on board.
“Don’t waste a second.”
She grabs my collar, twists it, and tugs me close to her.
On the side of a busy San Francisco street, in the early evening, with the sun falling behind the horizon, I dip my face and kiss her sweet mouth.
I tell myself it’s just a test.
That this is simply the kind of practice a fake romance requires.
But nothing feels fake about the quiet gasp she makes when my lips brush hers. Or the softness of her mouth. Or the grip of her fingers around my collar.
There’s nothing false either about the way my mouth captures hers. Our lips slide together. My hand cups her cheek. My thumb coasts along her chin. Remy parts her lips for me, asking for more. Pulling me closer. Whimpering.
Heat roars through me, a heavy sort of ache as I follow her lead. Inching closer, kissing more, roping my hands through her hair, whisking my beard against her cheek.
She murmurs, then grabs my shirt even harder, a tight fist holding on. She picks up the pace, her mouth seeking more contact, her hands hungrier.
My greedy woman needs more, and I won’t make her wait for it. I give her everything she asks for, snaking my hand around to the back of her head and cradling her skull. Nipping the corner of her mouth. Slipping my tongue between those plush lips.
Then guiding her eager, roaming hands away from the neckline of my shirt. As I take over the kiss, I peel her hand from the fabric of my shirt, then spread her palm wide open, and place it square on my right pec.
Well, she was checking me out yesterday. Might as well give the lady what she wants.
“Oh god,” she moans softly against my mouth, then she takes what she desires.
She slides her hand down my shirt, her busy fingers traveling from my chest to my abs. It’s decent, since I’m dressed, but it’s wholly indecent too, the path she’s taking, where she’s headed, the hazy sort of lust that seems to consume her.
It’s addictive, too, the way she responds when I show her where to go.
I could spend all night like this, wordless, just a touch here, a brush of my hand there, a reassurance that I want this.
But I’m keenly aware that Remy’s a woman who likes to keep her commitments. And she made one to her sister. The more I kiss her like tomorrow won’t arrive, the greater the chance she won’t walk through that door to the shop. That’ll make her mad at one person only—herself.
I summon all my resistance, cover her hand with mine, and wrench apart.
“We should go,” I say, bluntly.
Her eyes are glossy. She gives me a funny look like my words don’t compute.
I repeat it again. “You really should go,” I say, maybe a little more forcefully than I meant.
Something seems to click inside her. “Right. Yeah. We should.” She’s brushing her hands along her slacks, smoothing out her hair, and rearranging her features.
And fuuuuck. I was too harsh with the ending, with my tone. I don’t want her to think I didn’t like that kiss.
“Remy,” I say, trying to cut through her worries.
But her phone trills. She snags it from her purse at the speed of sound. “Hi, Fallon. Yes, I’m on my way in right now.”
She grabs the door handle and ejects from the car onto the sidewalk.
I’m up and opening the driver’s side door in seconds when it hits me.
I’m sporting wood.
Great. Just great. Dicks are so annoying. “Remy,” I call out, standing by the driver’s side door as it shields my annoying erection. “I’ll be right there. I need…to answer a message first.”
She flashes a smile that I just know is fake. “No problem.”
Then she rounds the corner and disappears.
22
CAN YOU SAY AWKWARD?
REMY
That was the most abrupt ending to the world’s hottest kiss, and now I’m replaying every single second and wondering what went wrong as my shoes click on the sidewalk and I near Fallon.
The Fresh Face producer stands outside Champagne Taste, a consignment shop that specializes in upscale dresses for black-tie affairs.
Her lips are pinched. Her expression is stern. And I feel even more unsteady. From the kiss that felt like it ended with a correction on both ends—Lake’s and now Fallon’s.
He stopped that kiss abruptly, and I can’t help but wonder why. Did he not like it? Not want it? Maybe I just can’t read him. Or men for that matter.
But Fallon is an open book, tapping her ballet flat. “The MOH is here,” she says into her walkie-talkie. She’s talking to the videographer on a freaking walkie-talkie?
“I’m not late?” I say, but it comes out as a question.