Total pages in book: 78
Estimated words: 73665 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 368(@200wpm)___ 295(@250wpm)___ 246(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73665 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 368(@200wpm)___ 295(@250wpm)___ 246(@300wpm)
I texted Rowleigh an address near the bus stop since I wanted to make sure he didn’t know what the surprise was ahead of time. Also? I texted because I couldn’t bring myself to call. I could barely hold it together while he was in my office and when I put Mika’s plan into motion. Sort of. I think I kind of fucked it up and played into it all at once. I mean, it’s not like we had this ironclad set of instructions we needed to follow or anything. I’m just out here, flying by the seat of my pants, and my pants are very much screaming what the fuck?
I made sure I was early, mostly because I had a fear of the bus being way late. That means I currently have twenty minutes to pace up and down the street, getting my chill back on. Never mind what the fuck pants, I’m wearing no pants.
This isn’t a date. I want to be clear and careful with that, mostly for the benefit of myself. But I still wore a nice dress. Something summery and floral. It was expensive, and I’ve had gosh darn few opportunities to wear it, but tonight is the night. Since I knew we’d be outside late and I didn’t want to get cold or bitten by the evening’s offerings of massive swarms of mosquitoes, I dressed it down with a dark purple lightweight cardigan. I hardly wore any makeup, but that was only because I tamed my curls into a breezy updo that was maximum effort while managing to look casual.
I wore flats for walking. After a day in heels, my feet would have rebelled clean off my body if I’d attempted anything else. I’m ruminating on how sore they are and how bad this idea is when a flashy red sports car zips by and pulls into a parking space just down the street.
My heart practically chokes me as it rams into my throat.
It’s too late to get back on a bus—any bus—and text Rowleigh that the whole thing is off, including the wedding planning. I like my messes mediocre, thank you, and this has all the trappings of turning into a flaming hot, spectacular mess.
But it’s way too late because Rowleigh is striding down the sidewalk in a black button-up that molds to his perfect muscly chest, arms, and sinful shoulders, and he’s literally turning every head out here. Paired with a charcoal set of pants that are no doubt doing as great a thing for his backside as they are for the front, half of those head-turns morph into back stares.
He’s hot enough to kindle a bonfire after a month of rain, but he’s still Mika’s dad. I need to drill that into my brain and have it be a bad thing, not something my lady bits get all shivery over.
I try to strike a casual pose, but I probably look like I’ve just bent over and had someone pitch a cactus straight into my hind end. “Hey.” I grasp my purse strap, causing the fringe on the suede bag to shimmy. My lungs work double time trying to drag in air. “Dinner’s a few blocks that way.” I point in the wrong direction. “I mean…this way.”
I make the mistake of not moving fast enough. His feet are already in motion, so he gets slightly ahead of me, which means I get a full view of his ass in those pants, and yup. They prove they’re a true museum, showcasing a lovely piece of carved artistry.
My belly flips as my brain paints the smuttiest picture of me doing something wicked to that sculpture with my tongue.
I speed up, falling into step beside Rowleigh, though he has a quick walking pace that makes me breathless by the time we’re standing in front of the taco joint.
His eyes track slowly to my face, almost in accusation. Beneath the shadow of stubble lining his jaw and his normally tanned complexion, he’s gone pale. He rakes a hand through his hair like he did in my office when he was stressed, messing up strands I’d like to use as a handhold while I—
Wow, congrats. You’ve made it half a second without objectifying your best friend’s father.
He eyes the glowing sign, a neon guy with a great big smile and a taco in each hand. “Why this place?”
“It’s the best place in the freaking state, that’s why.”
“Tacos,” he groans.
“Yes, tacos. Who doesn’t like tacos? It’s an experience of a lifetime. An item to cross off your bucket list before you even knew it was a thing.”
I expect him to at least crack a small smile and give it a go, but I don’t expect Mr. High and Mighty with a Refined Palate for Thousand Dollar Steaks to reel away and actually gag. He even bends at the waist, all dramatic, but nothing happens.