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)
I’m acutely aware of how close he is when he pulls the door open to a place called Benjamin Frog’s. I slip through around him, my arm brushing against his shirt, sending a shiver down my spine.
Be still, my heart…
Once seated at the bar, he doesn’t touch the menu.
“Whatever local pale you have, I’ll take that,” he tells the bartender, who has a handlebar mustache and a twinkle in his eye. “You?”
“White wine, please.” I doubt I’ll drink a single sip, but I need something to do with my hands. “Whatever you recommend.”
Silence stretches as we wait and the bar hums around us, the trendy, upscale place I had no idea existed. I take a sip of the wine when it’s set in front of me. It tastes crisp and expensive and is entirely wasted on me.
I can barely concentrate on anything but his nearness; his knee touching mine when he shifts on the barstool. His forearms. The cuts and scrapes on his skin.
Covertly, I drink all of him in, not wanting to be obvious.
If you ever get the chance to sleep with Aaron Bishop, take it… Blaire’s words echo in my brain, followed by more vibrations from my phone buried in my purse. Why can’t I be more like her and be a more confident flirt?
“You don’t look like you need a drink,” I say finally. “You look like you could use a snuggle.”
He lets out a laugh, caught off guard. “A snuggle? Those are the vibes I give off?”
Yes. A great big mountain of a man who could use a hug. Or, you know… other stuff.
It’s that other stuff I’m afraid to offer, even knowing this is my one chance. Knowing I’m going to answer to Blaire for it once I finally get around to calling her back.
I am not a taker.
I am a giver, nurturer, bleeding heart do-gooder.
Ugh!
I do not proposition men.
“I mean, you look a man who appreciates a good hug.” Jesus, Juliette, please stop talking. You’re making it worse.
“I do, huh?” Aaron Bishop has barely touched his drink, hands wrapped around the glass. “That’s sweet of you to say.”
Sweet?
I am not sweet.
“You’re not secretly a serial killer, are you?” The question tumbles out of my mouth before I can stop it.
“No.” He smiles, chipped bottom tooth winking at me.
“Um…”
Do it, Juliette.
Do it.
You may never get this chance, and you dumped the guy you’re dating, who you hadn’t even had sex with, and you need to have fun for once.
“Out of curiosity, are you in a relationship?”
That causes him to frown. “Not anymore.”
I inhale, sucking in a deep breath of cold city air, and say, “If you wanted to come back to my place for a drink or something, you can tell me about your shitty day? And I’ll tell you about my shitty date?”
Heat creeps up my neck, my cheeks, and the tips of my ears. I am so embarrassed.
Who am I?
What am I doing asking this man to come home with me?
He crosses his arms, studying me. “No offense, but you don’t know me.”
Oh, but I do.
You are the man my brother has idolized since he joined Michigan three years ago.
You’re handsome and kind and have been more polite and patient in the last fifteen minutes than Preston has been the entire month I’ve known him.
If only you knew that I’ve seen you visiting sick children at hospitals, and know you organize dinners with your buddies and call them bro, and standing this close to you has my ovaries tingling…
“You don’t exactly give off serial killer vibes,” I rush to say. “We can sit on opposite sides of my very long couch.”
My hot skin gets hotter the longer he takes to respond.
“I’m good at reading people!” I babble. “And you don’t look ready to be alone. I know I’m not.”
Aaron exhales slowly. “Right. ’Cause apparently, I’m Mr. Snuggles.” Pauses. “Alright, yeah. Why the hell not?”
Exactly.
I grin. “Why the hell not.”
His dark eyes crinkle at the corners, amused. “I could use the company.”
TWO
AARON
Something feels familiar about this girl, but I can’t put my finger on it.
I follow her into her apartment, eyes tracking the back of her head as she unlocks her door, a heaviness settling in my chest. I feel like I’ve seen her before. Her face is familiar. Her eyes are familiar. Or maybe she looks like someone I know…
I don’t fucking know.
Does it matter?
She moves ahead into her small foyer, nervous energy in every step. I can hear it in the way she exhales, see it in the way she fumbles with her keys before plopping them into a bowl on a small table.
“I don’t usually bring men h—” She turns to face me but cuts herself off, shaking her head with a laugh. “I’m not sure…”
I get it.
I don’t do this shit either—go home with strangers, sit on unfamiliar couches, pretending I’m a chill guy when I’m not. When I’m pissed and wound up this tight, I skate until my legs burn and there’s sweat dripping from every pore in my body.