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)
Ryan doesn't flinch. He reaches out and slides his hand into mine. His palm is warm, his grip firm and sure. The contact sends a jolt straight down my center and straight to my hussy girly parts. My fingers twitch as he laces his with mine.
“Smile, Rory,” he whispers, leaning his head close to mine. His breath brushes my ear, and I have to fight the urge to shiver. “You look like you’re facing a firing squad, not going out with the love of your life.”
“Right now, I’d take a firing squad,” I mutter back, but I fix a bright, soft smile on my face. I look at him, tilting my head back just enough to catch the light.
He laughs, a low, genuine sound that vibrates through our joined hands. “I feel your pain.” I seriously doubt it. He’s used to being front and center. This is all new for me.
Inside, the restaurant is a sea of white linen and hushed conversations. The hostess leads us to a booth along the back wall. Every head turns as we pass. Damn. I feel like I’m having one of those crazy dreams where you walk through the room bare ass naked.
“You’re doing great,” he says, taking his seat across from me. He picks up the wine list, but he doesn't look at it. He looks at me. “What’s your favorite wine?”
“Anything white. What about you?”
He pauses, and for a moment, the cocky athlete mask slips. “I’m not picky.”
The waitress comes by, and I order the house Chardonnay before he tells her he’ll take the same thing.
“I guess we should get to know each other since we’re going to be hanging out a lot,” I tell him once the waitress walks away. “Tell me something about yourself.”
He looks down at the table, tracing the edge of his water glass with a thumb. “I read. A lot. History, mostly. I like knowing how things were built. How they fell apart.”
I blink, surprised by the honesty. “I can see that.”
“What about you?” he asks, looking back up. There’s a directness in his eyes that makes it hard to breathe. “What makes you tick?”
“I love to read, too. But I like steamy romance and creepy horror.”
“That’s quite an eclectic range of reading material.” He smirks. “I haven’t read any romance books lately, but I’m about to start the new McFadden book.”
“I love her work.” I finally begin to relax and forget about the crowded restaurant. And I totally forget this is all make-believe as we discuss the last few books we’ve read.
The meal is a blur of laughter and calculated touches. We both order the lasagna, and the way he watches me eat makes my skin prickle with heat. He tells me stories about the Seattle Knights’ locker room, and I tell him about my job working at a pediatric dental office. This is supposed to be a performance, but it feels all too real.
The drive back to my apartment is quieter. The performance is over, or it should be, but Ryan doesn't let go of the tension. He drives with one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the center console, inches from my thigh. I can feel the space between us vibrating with a charged silence that makes every breath feel heavy.
When he pulls up to the curb outside my building, he doesn't just unlock the doors and wait for me to leave. He kills the engine and gets out, walking around to open my door. The street is quiet, the only sound the distant hum of the freeway.
He walks me to the front door, his hand resting on the small of my back. The touch is light, but it feels like a brand through the silk of my dress.
We stop outside my door. “Goodnight, Rory,” he says. He’s standing too close. I can smell the chocolate and wine on his breath, and the deeper, darker scent of him. He reaches out, his thumb brushing my cheekbone, and my eyes flutter shut of their own accord. “Thank you for tonight.”
“I had fun,” I say, my voice sounding breathy even to my own ears. I open my eyes, looking up at him. “Even if it was all pretend.”
“I wasn’t pretending,” he murmurs. He leans in, his face inches from mine. I can see the flecks of amber in his eyes, the tiny scar near his eyebrow.
Before I can respond, he closes the distance. The kiss isn't what I expected. It’s not a PR move, and it’s not a polite goodnight. It’s hungry and desperate, his mouth crashing against mine with a force that sends me reeling. My hands fly up to his chest, clutching the lapels of his suit, and for a second, the world just stops spinning.
He tastes like heat and chocolate. His tongue sweeps against mine, a slow, possessive stroke that makes my knees turn to water. I moan into his mouth, the sound lost in the quiet of the hallway, and pull him closer. I melt against his muscular body. forgetting about our arrangement. I just want this.