Total pages in book: 21
Estimated words: 18799 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 94(@200wpm)___ 75(@250wpm)___ 63(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 18799 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 94(@200wpm)___ 75(@250wpm)___ 63(@300wpm)
Rory takes the phone, but she brushes her fingers over my knuckles when she does. My breath leaves in a rush. Those nails, sharp plum, send a bolt straight to my groin. She must feel the charge because her eyes flick up to mine, hungry for a second before she covers it with a crooked smile.
I watch her fingers as she taps her info into my phone. She hands it back, and her fingertips brush mine just enough to make my pulse stutter. My cock is hard, straining against my jeans; I shift to keep things from getting too uncomfortable. Hell. I’m not sure what the fuck is happening to me.
“Does six-thirty work for you?” I ask, my voice rougher than I mean it to be.
She leans back, hair slipping over her shoulder. “It does.”
“Are you always this talkative?” I tease, my gaze glued to her lips, every cell of me wanting more.
She tilts her head and grins at me, all slow mischief. “I’m saving myself for tomorrow night.”
Fuck. I’m about to embarrass myself in this goddamn coffee shop.
My cock is rock hard now. I dig my fingers into my thigh under the table, trying not to shift around like a goddamn teenage boy. I reach for my coffee to have something to do with my hands, but she’s still watching me like she can see every dirty thought bouncing around in my head.
“I could handle anything you dish out, sweetheart.” My voice sounds like I’m choking on sand, but she just laughs, rich and warm.
“Tomorrow then.” She reaches for her purse, and I stand as she rises. She barely comes up to my chest, but she squares her shoulders like she’s about to take me out at the knees.
She leans in, lips close to my ear. “See you tomorrow.” Fuck me. I’m in so much trouble here.
CHAPTER FOUR
RORY
The dress is a mistake. It’s a deep plum silk that clings to every curve I’ve spent years trying to camouflage with oversized sweaters and high-waisted trousers. It doesn't just suggest my hips; it announces them to the room. I stare at my reflection in the hallway mirror of the apartment I share with Mia, wondering if I should run back and change into something more ‘fake girlfriend’ and less ‘first date.’
“You look great,” Mia says, leaning against the door frame with a bowl of cereal in her hand. “I told you that dress would be perfect.”
“It’s too much,” I mutter, tugging at the hem. “This is a fake date.”
“That doesn’t mean you don’t want to knock his socks off,” she chirps, completely unbothered by my existential crisis. “Now, put on your heels and go save a hockey career. Or ruin one. I’m fine with either as long as there’s a good story at the end of it.”
There’s a knock on the front door, and I throw it open to find Ryan leaning against the door frame. He’s wearing a charcoal suit that fits like it was made for him. It probably freaking was. The fabric pulls slightly across his shoulders, reminding me that underneath the expensive wool is the body of a man who spends his life slamming into other men on ice.
He looks down at me but doesn't say anything at first. He just looks. His eyes track from my heels up to my face, and the air between us suddenly feels like it’s been charged by a downed power line.
“Rory,” he says, his voice dropping an octave. “You look fucking gorgeous.” I barely resist the urge to fan myself as my insides turn to mush on the spot.
“You look pretty good yourself.” That’s a freaking understatement. He looks good enough to eat.
He moves toward me, and the distance between us vanishes too fast. He reaches out, his hand hovering near my waist before he catches himself and redirects it to take my hand.
I practice my calm breathing the entire walk out to his big black SUV. He opens the door for me, and I brush up against him as I slide into the massive vehicle.
The interior of the car smells like him—something clean, like cedar and cold air. “Thank you.” I breathe in when he reaches over and hooks my seatbelt. Damn. If I don’t get myself under control, I’m going to be a shivering mess by the time we get to the restaurant.
“You’re welcome,” he says before closing my door. He walks around the front of the car, and I watch him the entire way. He slides into the driver's seat and looks at me, a small, lopsided smirk playing on his lips. “Are you ready for tonight?”
“As ready as I’ll ever be.” I sit back and watch as the city streets blur past the window.
The restaurant is one of those places where the lighting is so dim you need a flashlight to find your fork, and the menu doesn't include prices because if you have to ask, you shouldn't be there. It’s the kind of place where the paparazzi linger near the valet stand like vultures circling a kill. As we step out of the car, the first flash goes off. It’s bright and invasive, a jagged tear in the evening.