Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 97994 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 490(@200wpm)___ 392(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97994 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 490(@200wpm)___ 392(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
Talking?
We’ve barely done any talking.
I can barely keep my fucking hands off her.
They run up the small of her back and down again, cupping her ass and squeezing the cheeks.
“Calculate the risk,” I repeat thoughtfully.
She wiggles her tits against my chest. “Pros and cons. Probability of getting caught. Likelihood of scandal.” Her smile turns delightfully wicked. “You’re very scandalous.”
If she only knew.
My jaw tightens. “What’s the current verdict?”
She pretends to think about it, eyes sparkling. “High reward. Manageable risk.”
“You sure about that?” Naïve little Juliette doesn’t understand the risk isn’t professional.
“Pretty sure,” she whispers.
“You’re not scared?” I ask quietly.
“Of you?” She laughs. “Should I be?”
Yes.
Yes, you should be.
TWENTY-ONE
JULIETTE
Never have I ever had more orgasms than I have in the past two weeks.
Two weeks.
That’s how long it took Aaron Bishop to completely recalibrate my understanding of my own body.
I float from my bedroom down the short hallway of my apartment, bare feet gliding across hardwood floors still warm from the morning sun. My muscles loose. Satisfied. My lips are still a little swollen from all the kissing last night.
Is this what smug feels like?
But far be it from me to be smug because I’m dating a six-foot-plus professional athlete who knows exactly what to do with his hands. And his mouth. And his tongue.
I am glowing.
I glide into the spare room I’ve labeled my “office” even though it’s mostly a desk, a printer I never use, and a plant I’m trying not to kill.
Sunlight spills across the hardwood floors, and I swear even the air smells better than it did yesterday. I get to work, sliding my laptop into its sleeve, tuck in my planner, charger, lip gloss.
I have a few hours of work I can technically knock out remotely before heading into the office, and camping out at the café down the street—the one with the brick walls and baristas who draw little hearts and stars on the cups in magic marker—is the perfect way to spend the time.
My phone buzzes as I’m sliding my headphones into my bag.
Heart does that embarrassing little hopeful skip because for half a second, I assume it’s Aaron.
Ugh. It’s my annoying brother.
Declan: Hey
I roll my eyes, instantly disappointed—even more so because he started his message with “Hey.”
Juliette: Hey
Declan: You around?
Juliette: Of course I’m around. Where else would I be?
Declan: I think we need to catch up
Juliette: Catch up on what??
I see him around the office plenty, and we had dinner with our parents two weeks ago. That’s more time than most siblings spend together.
Declan: Just stuff.
Just stuff?
Juliette: Should I be nervous?
Declan: I don’t know, that depends
Juliette: You can’t slide into my messages at eight in the morning and say “we need to catch up.” That’s either code for “I’m dying” or “one of us is in trouble.”
He ignores me.
Declan: Ha ha. I’m near your place. I can be there in 10 minutes
Juliette: I’m leaving my apartment. You’re going to have to meet me at Third Street Roasters
Declan: Fine. 10
Ten.
He doesn’t add a smiley face. Doesn’t add a “see you soon.”
Huh.
I stash my phone into my tote and head out, locking my apartment behind me.
Third Street Roasters sits exactly where you would imagine it would—on the corner, all glass windows and exposed brick interior walls, with a chalkboard sign out front that reads:
our espresso is strong enough to survive playoff season
Ha. How punny.
I smile as I shove through the door, pleased when my usual table is unoccupied. Order in the app. Set up my stuff, spreading out as if I’m here for the long haul.
No sooner does my iced latte arrive than Declan strolls through like he’s entering a room full of rabid fans instead of a coffee shop—broad shoulders, baseball cap pulled low so no one recognizes him, scanning the room automatically.
A couple of heads turn. Of course they do.
He spots me and makes his way over, expression neutral but tight around the edges.
“Morning,” I say lightly.
“Morning.”
He doesn’t order anything. Drops his big body into the chair across from me.
Okay then.
I close my laptop halfway. “So. Am I about to find out I was adopted?”
My brother has the decency to smile at my joke. Then he leans back in his chair and props one sneakered foot up on the empty seat across from him, like he was raised in a barn instead of our mother’s very orderly house.
I stare at his foot until he finally drops it back to the floor.
He continues leaning back against the chair. “What exactly is going on between you and Aaron Bishop?”
No warm-up. No small talk.
A wave of déjà vu washes over me so fast it almost makes me dizzy—Declan’s face peering over the wall of my office cubicle a few weeks ago, eyes sharp, voice clipped, when he caught Aaron lingering nearby. The accusations and cold tone.
I feel my back bristling. “Good morning to you, too.”